


Don't Give it a Hand, Offer it a Soul

by TooManyBattles (Skarabrae_stone)



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon Divergence - Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Marvel Trumps Hate 2019, Mistaken Identity, Modern Bucky Barnes, SHIELD Agent Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Steve Rogers as the Winter Soldier, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:28:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 30,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23316880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skarabrae_stone/pseuds/TooManyBattles
Summary: An Avengers training mission gone wrong, a HYDRA plot in the midst of SHIELD, and a mysterious prisoner in the basement of an abandoned bank-- and that's just the start of Bucky's day. While the Avengers rush to prevent HYDRA's plans for world domination, Bucky finds himself drawing closer to the stranger he rescued... a man who is almost certainly an agent of HYDRA.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 165
Kudos: 454
Collections: Marvel Trumps Hate 2019





	1. You know better (than to talk to it like that)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ZepysGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZepysGirl/gifts).



> I wrote this for the 2019 Marvel Trumps Hate charity event. Thank you so much to ZepysGirl for asking me to write this, and for coming up with such an amazing prompt! It's been a pleasure working with you, and I appreciate all the support you've given me throughout the writing process.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for graphic violence (bad guys getting killed), and evidence of physical and psychological abuse/torture.  
> Dialogue in italics is in Russian.

There are times when Bucky really regrets joining the Avengers.

Well, he didn’t exactly _join_ them; technically he’s the Avengers’ SHIELD liaison, but that means fuck-all when people are shooting at you.

Which they’re doing right now. With prejudice.

“So,” he pants into his com as he runs down yet another subterranean passageway, “The bank isn’t abandoned, it’s probably not even a bank, and all the guys chasing me have SHIELD uniforms. Anyone have any ideas about what the _hell_ is going on here?”

“ _You’re_ the SHIELD guy,” Clint points out. “Shouldn’t you know?”

“If you think Fury tells me _anything—_ ” Bucky ducks back behind the corner as a fresh spurt of gunfire erupts from the next hallway— “you’re sadly deluded. Where are you guys, anyway?”

“Cap and I are on the fourth floor,” Clint reports.

“Second floor,” says Natasha.

“Still in the elevator shaft,” Sharon says. “Should be on your level in… uh… five minutes.”

“Great,” Bucky mutters, taking another shot. His clip is almost empty, and it doesn’t sound like help is going to be arriving anytime soon.

“Ironman, what’s your status?” asks Sam.

“Still trying to figure out this damned server—it’s got some kind of algorithm, it keeps changing the passcodes every time I get close.”

Bucky tunes out the chatter, focusing instead on the footsteps getting closer and closer… He crouches down, and sticks his head out just long enough to aim and shoot. A strangled shout tells him he’s hit _something_ , and the rattle of answering bullets all go high, pulverizing the cinderblock wall behind him and sending up a cloud of dust. There’s one bullet left in his clip, and he knows he didn’t get all of them—he needs to find someplace to regroup.

Peering down the corridor he’s sheltering in, he spots a steel door about halfway down. There’s no knowing what’s behind it, but it can’t be a hell of a lot worse than what he knows is coming down the other hall toward him. He needs a distraction, though, or the guys coming after him will simply follow him right through the door.

Unfortunately, his tools are limited, as he hadn’t exactly expected to be in a live firefight today.

 _Me and my stupid training scheme ideas_ , he thinks. He’s lucky he had live ammo with him at all; he’d considered only carrying blank rounds for today’s little skirmish. However, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a few tricks up his sleeve…

Digging in one of his belt pouches, he removes a smoke bomb, pulls the ignition wire, and rolls it out into the hall. There’s a pack of firecrackers in the same pouch; he quickly lights the fuse and throws that as well, just as smoke begins to fill the corridor. As the crack and spark of the crackers joins the roiling smoke, he makes good his escape, bolting down the hall toward the metal door.

The door is locked, of course, but this is where having a highly advanced, vibranium-alloy prosthesis comes in handy. Bucky takes a step back, then punches the wall next to the door with his left hand. The cinderblock crumbles under the force of his metal fist, and after a couple more punches, the door’s deadbolt is unanchored and useless.

He rips open the door, ducking immediately to avoid a new barrage of bullets.

 _Damn_. He’d kind of been hoping this was a storage room, or something. From the glance he gets at the room before he dives and rolls behind a bank of computers, the place looks to be some kind of control room—computer monitors and machines, a couple guys in white coats, and the guys shooting at him.

Bucky’s running out of options, time, and bullets. His one saving grace is that his assailants seem reluctant to shoot the computer bank itself, which means he has a few seconds before they come around the sides of it and flank him. Crouching as low as he can, he removes a sound grenade from the pack at his back (it’s _not_ a fanny pack, whatever Sharon says), flings it over the top of the computers, and drops to the floor, trying to relax as much as possible.

His earbuds—designed by Tony to block out any sound above eighty-five decibels—block out the noise, but the other effects of the grenade are palpable: the floor shakes, dust falls from the ceiling, and the clock falls off the wall above him and smashes. The vibration makes Bucky feel like dice getting rattled in a Yahtzee cup; he has to concentrate on relaxing, knowing that the tenser he is, the more likely it is that he’ll be injured.

At last, the vibration stops, and Bucky cautiously pokes his head around the side of the computer array. Everyone else in the room is out cold.

Standing, he crosses the room on unsteady feet, checking on the condition of his assailants: four guys in white coats, three armed security, all alive, all unconscious. He heaves a breath of relief, then drags a heavy table in front of the door, tying the door handle to one of the table legs. It won’t stop anyone for long, but it’ll give him a little breathing room—long enough to change the damn clip, and maybe for Sharon to finally get her ass down here to help.

“How we doing, Thirteen?” he asks, after switching on his mic.

“Busy,” she says breathlessly. “You’re gonna have to wait a little longer for that rescue, Seventeen.”

 _Damn._ “I ain’t no damsel in distress,” he responds dryly, chambering the last round before switching out his empty clip with a full one. “Once I reload, I’ll come to you.”

Glancing around, he takes stock of the room he’s sheltered in: computers, unconscious people, something that looks like a dentist’s chair with a bunch of wires and stuff hooked up to it, a big metal thing that looks like some kind of futuristic refrigerator, and— _Oh, shit—_ a big digital readout next to it, with a countdown.

Thirty-four seconds.

“Guys,” he says in a strained voice. “There might be some kind of bomb down here.”

“Live?” Natasha asks.

“It’s got thirty seconds left,” he confirms, hurrying over to the control panel. “I’ll try to do something, but I don’t even know where it is—there’s just a countdown here.”

“Well, it’s been a pleasure knowing you all,” says Clint.

_Twenty-one… twenty…_

Bucky scowls at the instrument panel. Buttons and switches stare back, completely opaque in their usage. “There’s gotta be something…”

_Thirteen… twelve…_

“I’ve hacked their servers,” Tony says. “If there’s a self-destruct system, it’s not connected to the main system. Also, their AI corrupted like ninety percent of the files before I could extract them.”

“Thanks,” says Bucky, staring grimly at the readout. “We’ve got four seconds.”

There’s silence on the coms, everyone bracing themselves. Bucky hopes his teammates on the upper floors make it out alive, at least; maybe the explosives are just in this room. Maybe he’ll be the only one paying for this mistake.

_Three, two, one—_

The readout flashes once, then turns green. There’s a faint click, and then… nothing. Bucky stays frozen for a second more, waiting, but nothing happens.

He breathes out, wiping his face with a shaking hand. “Sorry, guys. False alarm.”

“It didn’t blow?” asks Sam, relief palpable in his voice.

“I don’t know. It got down to zero, and then… nothing.”

“Well, thanks for that little heart attack,” says Tony flippantly. “You figure out what actually _did_ happen?”

“I’m gonna look around,” Bucky says sheepishly. “Sorry.”

“No problem, Seventeen,” Sam responds. “Thanks for warning us.”

“Cleared my floor,” reports Natasha. “Stark, I’m heading toward you.”

“Got it.”

Bucky tunes out their chatter and turns off his mic, again examining the control panel and nearby monitors for any clue about what just happened. He’s distracted by a thump from the direction of the metal tube.

When he steps closer, he sees what he hadn’t noticed before: there’s a little panel of lights on the front of the machine, now all green, and a window at the top of it, which is opaque with what appears to be steam.

There’s a bad feeling growing in Bucky’s stomach as he examines it, and that feeling only increases as there’s another thump, and then a rhythmic pounding: there is something inside the tube, and it’s knocking, trying to get out.

For a moment, he dithers, wondering if this is some kind of trap, but self-preservation has never been Bucky’s greatest strength, and he’s already gotten lucky today—and besides, he’s curious.

He thumbs off the safety on his gun, and opens the door.

He’s not sure what he expected; whatever it was, it certainly wasn’t this: a brawny, naked white man, head shaved nearly bald, tumbling forward out of the tube, nearly bowling him over.

Bucky catches him before he can fall and eases them both to the floor, as the man seems incapable of supporting his own weight.

“Hey,” he says. “Hey, you okay?”

The man’s skin is cold and clammy, his breathing harsh but steady. He clings to Bucky with a surprisingly strong grip, curling into him like a kitten seeking its mother; he’s shivering hard, and Bucky automatically starts rubbing up and down his back with his right hand, trying to warm him up.

“Hey, buddy, it’s okay, it’s okay, I got you.”

The man is murmuring something, and at first Bucky thinks it’s nonsense; then he recognizes a word, and realizes he’s speaking Russian:

 _“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,”_ over and over again.

“ _It’s okay,_ ” Bucky answers in the same language. _“It’s okay, you don’t need to be sorry. Are you okay?”_

The man doesn’t respond, just lies in Bucky’s lap, his breathing slowly evening out. He’s very muscular, Bucky notices, and there are scars scattered over his pale skin. His hands bear knife scars, and when Bucky examines his right hand, there are gun callouses there.

“ _Hey friend, are you a soldier?”_

 _“Yes, sir,”_ the man responds, tensing.

_“Are you okay?”_

No answer. Bucky tries a different tactic. _“What’s your status, soldier?_

The man shudders, then pulls away from him, looking at him with dull blue eyes. _“Ready to comply,”_ he says.

Bucky goes cold, puzzle pieces slotting themselves into place. The guy is clearly a prisoner, and the tube must have been some kind of torture device. Clearly, he’s finally given in—except it’s Bucky who released him, and not his captors.

“ _It’s okay,”_ he says. _“You’re safe now. I’m Agent Seventeen, of SHIELD. You can call me Bucky.”_

The man looks at him in obvious confusion. _“Confirmation requested: I am to call you ‘Bucky’?”_ he asks.

Bucky can’t help smiling a little, despite the seriousness of the situation; the man says his name like a made-up word, as though he’s asked him to call him “flibbertigibbet” or something like that. “ _Yes,”_ he says. _“Call me Bucky.”_

_“Yes, Bucky.”_

_“What’s your name?”_

_“I have none,”_ says the man, matter-of-fact, like it’s normal.

“Holy shit.” This is _so_ much worse than he thought. Unfortunately, however, there isn’t time to deal with this; they need to leave, and soon. _“I’m going to get you out of here, okay?”_

 _“Yes, Bucky,”_ says the man calmly, settling back on his heels. _“I await my punishment.”_

“No, shit, fuck, that’s not what I— _I’m not going to hurt you, friend. I’m setting you free, understand?”_

 _“Yes, Bucky.”_ There is no change in his expression; he is still looking at Bucky expectantly, waiting for something, and Bucky has a sinking feeling that he did not, in fact, understand anything Bucky just said. Once again, however, that’s a problem for future Bucky; right now, he needs to get him out of here.

“ _Can you stand up?_ ” he asks, and the man immediately stands, graceful despite the fact that he’s still shivering.

And, of course, he’s still very, very naked.

Bucky scrambles to his feet hastily, a flush rising in his cheeks. _“Here,”_ he says, handing the man his jacket. “ _Put this on. I’ll see if I can find you something to wear.”_

The man nods, pulling the jacket to himself with a look of restrained wonder, as though Bucky’s just handed him a diamond necklace.

He seems okay, so Bucky goes to the row of lockers on the other side of the room, hoping that there will be something useful in there. He’s willing to strip one of the security guards, but he’d rather not have to—and the prisoner has broader shoulders and thicker thighs than the fallen guards, making it unlikely that their clothing would even fit him.

The first locker he tries is full of ammo, the second appears to be mostly protein and other nutrients in powder form. The third has clothes—black, heavy-duty pants, black shirts, black socks and underwear, black combat boots. They’re all big enough to fit the prisoner—they must be _for_ him, which means he must have been here for a while.

This whole situation is looking worse and worse.

Bucky swallows the bad taste in his mouth and turns, to find that the prisoner has sat down in the dentist’s chair. His head is tilted back, mouth open, and his breathing is slow and deep, in a way that makes Bucky think it’s deliberate. When Bucky approaches him, he can see what he failed to notice before: metal cuffs attached to the sides and bottom of the chair, which the prisoner has fitted his arms and legs into.

Blue eyes follow him as he comes to a stop next to the device, and the scarred hands clench minutely on the arms of the chair. _He’s expecting pain_ , Bucky thinks, noting the slight uptick in his breathing. _Whatever happens to him in this chair, it’s bad._

“ _It’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you,”_ he repeats. _“Can you come put these clothes on?”_

For a long moment, the man doesn’t move, staring at Bucky as though checking to see whether he’s serious. Then he gets up, so quickly that Bucky startles a little, takes the clothes, and begins getting dressed in quick, efficient movements.

The clothes fit him perfectly. Bucky’s not surprised, but it doesn’t really help with the many questions spinning through his head. _Who the hell is this guy, and why were they keeping him here?_

He doesn’t get the opportunity to ponder— at that moment, there’s an almighty crash as the forces outside break the door down.

Bucky hits the floor and rolls behind the chair, then peers out from behind it to take aim. What he sees freezes him into inaction.

The man he’s just freed has grabbed one of the guards’ rifles, and strides forward, shooting steadily. The agents who have breached the entrance fall in quick succession, mostly from headshots. They’re firing at the prisoner, but he moves so quickly they haven’t a chance; he leaps over the computer console and into the midst of them in just a couple of seconds.

They can’t shoot him without risking shooting each other, and he takes advantage of their confusion, clubbing them with the rifle and punching with his other hand; Bucky watches as he snaps a guy’s neck like a twig, kicks another guy hard enough to break his spine, and punches a third with enough force to cave his face in. One of the remaining agents circles around to get a clear shot at his back, and Bucky shoots her; the prisoner doesn’t even flinch, taking out the last two agents with a knife to the throat for one (where did he get a knife?) and a shot at pointblank range for the other.

When he turns around, he’s only a little out of breath; his hands, face, and chest are covered in blood, and he wears a look of fierce satisfaction. Bucky’s finger hovers on the trigger of his pistol, but the man doesn’t seem to notice. He walks confidently back to him, lays the gun and knife at Bucky’s feet, then kneels, head bowed, as though waiting for benediction—or judgement.

 _He just took out nine agents in his socked feet_ , Bucky thinks wildly. _I am_ way _out of my depth. Why couldn’t Sam have been the one to find him?_

 _“Thank you,”_ he says aloud. _“I—_ um— _appreciate it.”_

The man raises his head, eyes shining. _“Thank you, si—Bucky.”_

Bucky doesn’t know what to do. He awkwardly pats the guy on the shoulder. _“You,_ um, _you don’t have to thank me.”_

The man does not respond; he has leaned into Bucky’s touch, eyes fluttering closed, lips parting, and when Bucky removes his hand, he still leans, for a moment, as though by doing so he can retain the touch.

Against his better judgement, Bucky reaches out again, and the man moves his head the barest few millimeters to connect his cheek with Bucky’s palm. _Touch-starved_ , Bucky thinks, and gently strokes his cheek, then rubs his shoulders.

 _“I was good?”_ the man asks quietly, in a voice of such quiet yearning that Bucky is both taken aback, and filled with heart-wrenching pity.

 _“You were good,”_ he replies, as reassuringly as he can. This is probably the wrong way to go about this, but he doesn’t know what else to do, and the man seems as desperate for praise as he is for touch. Bucky thinks he probably would be, too, if he’d been kept in that container for who knows how long. _“We have to go, now; there will be more of them.”_

 _“Yes, Bucky,”_ says the man, but he makes no move until Bucky withdraws. When he gets to his feet, his face is blank once more; there is no sign of the contented look he had worn only seconds ago.

 _“Let me help you get clean,”_ says Bucky, and grabs one of the extra shirts from the lockers to wipe him down.

It only takes a few minutes for the man to finish dressing, going to the lockers to equip himself with a Kevlar vest, several knives, and a couple of handguns, before picking up one of the remaining rifles, checking the magazine, and looking at Bucky expectantly.

 _“Okay,”_ Bucky says, shouldering a rifle of his own. _“Let’s go.”_

Everything is much easier after that.

Bucky’s new companion fights as easily as breathing, slicing through his opponents like a barracuda through a shoal of herring. He’s far stronger than the average person—Bucky suspects he might be superhuman—and graceful as a dancer, able to flip and roll in midair as easily as he punches and kicks when on the ground. He’s utterly ruthless, too, killing their opponents in the quickest and most efficient way possible. Bucky, who usually tries to avoid bloodshed, figures in this case it’s probably justified. If he wants revenge for what’s been done to him, Bucky isn’t going to stop him.

They clear the corridors one by one, carving through the opposition to reach Sharon, who’d gotten pinned down near the elevator.

“Who’s this?” she asks, when the dust has settled. She has a scratch on her cheek, and her hair is coming out of its braid, but other than that she looks unscathed.

“They had him locked up in some kind of metal capsule thing,” says Bucky. “He says he doesn’t have a name.”

Sharon frowns, looking the guy up and down. “And you decided to trust him? Just like that?”

“Now’s not the time, Shar,” he says firmly. “He was their prisoner, and he probably saved my life back there. I’ll tell you the rest when we get out of here.”

“How do we know he’s not a decoy?” Sharon demands. “Some way of tracking us once we’re out of here?”

“I have a tracker implanted behind my left shoulder blade, and another in my right thigh,” says the man, in perfect, unaccented English. “There may be one in my boot, as well.”

“Wait, you speak _English_?”

Sharon glares at them both. “What the hell, Bucky.”

“He didn’t—I thought you only spoke Russian!”

 _“I am required to address my handler in Russian,”_ he answers, _“Unless I am instructed to do otherwise, or the situation demands it.”_

“Fuck,” says Bucky. Then, deciding to unpack all of that later—when they’re the _hell_ out of this place—he adds, “Okay, well, I’d appreciate it if you stick to English for now. I don’t want to leave Sharon out of the loop.”

“Yes, Bucky,” he answers, and somehow, in English, it’s a lot more obvious that he’s saying it with the exact same intonation as “Yes, sir.”

 _Not thinking about it_ , Bucky reminds himself. “So, should we just climb back up the elevator, or…?”

“There’s a parking garage this way,” says Sharon. “I told the others we’d meet up with them—they’re just about done, but it would take us ages to get back up there now, and Cap wants to leave before reinforcements show up.”

“Okay, lead the way.”

“What about the trackers?”

“You’ve got a jammer, right? Then we’ll worry about it later. Let’s _go._ ”

“Okay,” says Sharon when the three of them are on the highway, having stolen a black SUV from the underground garage. “So what was that, who is he, where are we going, and what the _hell_ do we do now?”

“ _That_ appears to be some kind of splinter cell embedded in SHIELD,” says Tony through their earpieces, “using an unfortunately familiar red tentacley logo.”

“You’re kidding,” says Clint.

“Wish I was.”

“Tentacles?” asks Sam, sounding confused.

“HYDRA,” Natasha answers succinctly. “You say they’ve infiltrated SHIELD?”

“I used the word ‘embedded’, actually. As in, stuck way in there, like a giant deer tick. Complete with lyme disease.”

“Thanks for that image,” says Sharon, wrinkling her nose.

The man stares at her in obvious puzzlement; since their earpieces are silent to anyone not wearing them, it must sound to him like Sharon is making random statements to thin air.

“Yeah, yeah. So, y’know, SHIELD’s obviously compromised—”

“You think?”

“We need to figure out what we’re doing about it.”

“We need a meetup point,” Sam puts in. “Hawkeye and I took Tony’s van, Iron Man is flying Widow—we need to throw ‘em off our trail, then meet someplace they won’t expect. _Not_ the Tower, Tony,” he adds preemptively. “They’ll be expecting that. It’s better if we go off the radar, at least at first. Keep them guessing what actually happened, how much we know.”

“ _Fine_ ,” says Tony, and Bucky can clearly visualize the pout he’s probably sporting right now. “So we pick a meeting place. Widow and I can’t go too far—she’s not suited up for it. Where are you, can you pick us up?”

“We’re on the George Washington Parkway,” Sam answers. “Heading north.”

“Okay, we’ll head for Great Falls Park. There’s enough trees and stuff there—should be enough cover.”

“Okay. We’ll get there as soon as we can.”

“Great, thanks.”

“Thirteen, Seventeen, what’s your position?” asks Sam.

“We’re on 395 south,” answers Sharon. “So, opposite direction.”

“That’s probably a good thing. Keep driving randomly for a while, okay? We’ll figure out someplace to land once we’ve picked up the others.”

“Copy that,” Sharon replies, and the coms fall silent. She takes a breath, then glances over her shoulder. “So, not to be rude or anything, but our guy literally told us he has trackers, so… you want to maybe do something about that, as long as we’ve got the jammer going?”

The man looks at Bucky inquiringly.

Bucky sighs. “She’s right, pal. We should get those out of you, pronto.”

“Yes, Bucky,” says the man, and pulls off his shirt.

Bucky tries not to stare at the rippling muscles on display, reminding himself that he is a goddamned _adult_ , and also a seasoned agent, and one very screwed-up ex-prisoner with a body like Adonis should not be throwing his composure this much. He grabs the first aid kit, lays out what he’ll need on the seat next to him, and turns to the guy.

“How do you want to do this?”

He hesitates. “I could lie across your legs.” His eyes flick upwards, as though gauging Bucky’s reaction.

“That’s… probably the best way,” Bucky admits. “Are you comfortable with that?”

The man doesn’t reply verbally, just lies down, his chest to Bucky’s thighs. His hand curls around Bucky’s ankle—possibly to steady himself, but Bucky wonders if this is an excuse to touch, to be touched. Well, if that’s what he needs, it’s not like Bucky’s gonna deny him. It’s not exactly a hardship.

He runs a scanner over the man’s shoulder blade, then marks an _x_ where the tracker is located. He checks the rest of his back, too, just in case, but the scanner doesn’t pick up anything else.

“Okay,” he says. “I’m gonna wipe this down with alcohol first, to disinfect it.” He does so, then picks up the sterile knife from the first aid kit. “Sharon, how’s the road looking?”

“Smooth as far as I can see.”

“Okay. I’m going to make the incision now. Hold still.”

The man holds perfectly still—unnaturally so—as Bucky makes a crescent-shaped cut, then reaches in with the tweezers. “Okay, I see the chip; I’m gonna get it out now… There. Now, I’ll just disinfect it again… And now I’m sealing it up.” He sprays liquid stitches on the skin, then covers the cut with a square of gauze and tapes it down, breathing a sigh of relief when the last side is tamped down.

“Okay. One down, one to go.”

The Soldier is not sure, but he thinks this may be the strangest handler he has ever had. Though he does not have any specific memories, he knows, in general, what handlers are supposed to be like: they are supposed to give him stern orders, not gentle questions; they are not supposed to touch him kindly, or look at him with eyes full of sympathy and concern. He has a nagging suspicion that this handler is violating protocol, but that, he supposes, is the handler’s concern, not his.

Anyway, he is not about to point out the problem, when not doing so is so pleasant; when the handler had finished removing the trackers, he had allowed the Soldier to lie down with his head in his lap, and had stroked his hand over the Soldier’s scalp in a way that was quite overwhelming. The Soldier had had to concentrate to stay still, to keep from betraying how much he liked it—a weakness which he was sure would be punished.

They had stopped the vehicle at one point, to look for bugs and destroy them, and then they had gone to a McDonald’s, and the woman had bought them an enormous amount of food (she apparently had the handler’s order memorized, and the Soldier had had a strange moment of jealousy when the two of them split a salad and fries, passing the containers back and forth as though this was an everyday occurrence). The Soldier had eaten two hamburgers, and (at the others’ encouragement) a container of fries, a strawberry milkshake, and a salad.

Now he is pleasantly full and nearly sleepy, and the handler had correctly interpreted the slight lean of his body, and wrapped his arm around him, letting the Soldier rest his head on his shoulder.

“Where the hell is Tony sending us?” asks the handler, but he doesn’t seem overly concerned. His fingers trace light patterns over the back of the Soldier’s neck, and the Soldier shivers.

“Bad?” the handler asks, removing his hand, and the Soldier freezes, unsure how to proceed.

He doesn’t want the handler to stop, but if he tells him how much he likes it, he might use it to hurt him later.

But he cannot lie to his handler; he is supposed to be obedient, and he _wants_ to be good, especially for this man, who is so gentle with his hands.

“Not bad,” he whispers, pressing a little closer in the hopes that the handler will understand.

The handler smiles, and his hand descends once more, achingly gentle. “Okay.”

“Some motel in the middle of nowhere, apparently,” says the woman, answering the previous question. “Also, not that I’m judging, but I never thought I’d see the day when I met someone as aggressively cuddly as you are.”

“I’m not _aggressively_ cuddly,” says the handler defensively. “Anyway, I’ve told you, SHIELD agents are not a good basis for normal behavior.”

“I know people outside SHIELD.”

“But are you friends with any of them?”

Silence.

“See,” says the handler triumphantly. “Cuddling is good for you. It’s scientifically proven. Anyway, he’s touch-starved.”

“ _Is_ he,” says the woman disbelievingly. “Maybe he’s just exploiting your weakness for sob-stories.”

“He didn’t _give_ me a sob-story,” the handler says irritably. “I told you, he was in that metal tube thing—”

“And he still hasn’t told us _why_.” The woman gives the Soldier a pointed glance in the rearview mirror.

The Soldier tries not to let his confusion show on his face. Surely they already _know_ why he was in cryostasis? Although… yes, this is probably a test. They usually test his memory after removing him from cryo, but obviously, the process had been interrupted today.

“Hey, buddy,” says the handler gently, “Can you tell us how you got to where I found you? Anything you remember… it’s okay if you don’t.”

It’s not the usual mode of asking things, but the Soldier wants to be good, and this handler seems to prefer initiative over perfect obedience. The Soldier will do the best he can, under the circumstances.

“My mind was wiped—” he hesitates—“presumably after my last mission. I do not remember my last mission, or any previous missions. I was placed in cryostasis. I do not know for how long. You removed me from cryostasis.”

He pauses, wracking his mind for more information, but there is none: he doesn’t know what happened before he was wiped, nor does he want to. HYDRA wants his mind empty, quiet, so that it is easier for him to complete his missions, and so that the people on his missions will be safe if he is captured. For this, he will endure the agony of the mindwipes willingly, and will try to banish any hints of memory that creep on him unbidden.

“Missions?” asks the woman.

He is not obligated to answer her—she is not his handler—but so far, the handler has asked him to answer her questions, so…

“Like today,” he says carefully. “Fighting the rogue agents.”

“So you were working for SHIELD?”

Here, he is on firmer ground. HYDRA is SHIELD, SHIELD is HYDRA: this is one of the truths he is allowed to remember. “Yes.”

Both the handler and the woman relax at this, and the Soldier relaxes, too; clearly, he has given the correct answer.

“So how did they capture you?” asks the woman. “Do you remember?”

Again, he hesitates. “You mean, the faction we fought today?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t remember,” he says honestly, “but I think I was sent to them. I think the director must not have known their loyalties had shifted.”

It’s dangerous to suggest that the director is any less than omniscient, but luckily, his words don’t seem to have caused any offense; the woman snorts, and the handler shakes his head and mutters, “Yeah, I bet.”

“He’s gonna have a cow when he gets wind of this,” says the woman, and the handler sighs.

“We gotta find a way to contact him without getting burned, ourselves. Honestly, that’s probably a job for Stark; we have to assume all the SHIELD channels are suspect.”

The Soldier feels rather alarmed at this evidence of a major schism within HYDRA. It’s unsettling to think that his superiors are not as in control of things as he has always been led to believe, and that there is enough disagreement within the ranks to threaten the order which HYDRA has always prided itself on. He consoles himself with the fact that his handler and his team are clearly very competent, if unorthodox; surely they will get this mess cleared up in no time at all.

“Hey, buddy,” says the handler. “I was thinking.”

This is seldom a good thing, but the Soldier tries to arrange his expression into something politely interested.

“We can’t just keep calling you ‘buddy’; do you want to pick out a name to call yourself by?”

The Soldier blinks. Everyone calls him “Soldier”, or “The Asset”; he doesn’t know why he needs another callsign, but he’s not about to argue with his handler.

“You want… _me_ to choose it?” he asks, rather daringly.

The handler nods, smiling encouragingly. “We can look up some names online, if that would be easier.”

 _Is this another test_? the Soldier wonders. It doesn’t matter, he supposes; there is clearly only one right answer. “Yes, Bucky.”

The handler _beams_ , and types something into his phone before handing it to the Soldier.

“That better not get us found,” says the woman threateningly.

“It’s the one from Stark, relax,” the handler answers, waving his hand. To the Soldier, he says, “I looked up Russian names, ‘cause, uh, you seem like you’re probably Russian, but if you want something different, just let me know.”

The Soldier looks at the phone screen, the Cyrillic letters comfortingly familiar. _This must be a test_ , he thinks. It always is when he’s asked to make a choice…

He pauses, letting that sink in.

 _A choice._ This handler has asked him to make decisions, to make _choices_ , ever since he removed him from cryo. _What do you want, would you like to do this, are you okay with this, is that okay with you?_

He had assumed it was some strange quirk on the part of his handler, but what if… what if…

Does this mean he’s good enough?

There are few things he’s allowed to remember, but there are certain truths that are carved at the heart of him:

Long ago, he did something terrible; what it was, HYDRA has been kind enough to erase, but he knows that he will never stop trying to atone for it.

In order to atone for the terrible thing, he must do HYDRA’s bidding, to help them realize their vision of peace.

Peace only comes through order.

Order comes through pain.

The Soldier has endured agonies, has bled and bruised and broken bones, has lived and breathed pain like air, fed on it like food and water, has martyred himself on the altar of suffering, in the hopes that someday it might burn away the rotten core of him. Pain is a purifying fire, and perhaps, if he bears enough of it, he will become something better, something good, something worthy of the task HYDRA has given him.

If he is good, if he is obedient, if he is the perfect soldier they want him to be, then perhaps, perhaps—he has hardly dared hope it, even in the deepest recesses of his mind—perhaps he can earn back his humanity.

He does not aspire very high; he has no desire to become a handler, or a superior agent. But to be allowed to make his own choices sometimes, to sleep in a bed instead of a cryotube, to keep a few (only a few) of his memories… this is his greatest desire, the privilege that he strives for.

And if his handler is giving him choices, is asking for his opinions? Then perhaps that day is closer than he realized. If he can pass this test, if he can show himself worthy of such freedoms… perhaps he will be allowed to keep them.

It is with this idea in mind that he applies himself to the list of names, reading through them again and again with a critical eye. None of them strike him as familiar (though for some unknown reason he shrinks from “Vasily” and “Aleksandr”), and he cannot tell which one will most please his handler. Still, he doesn’t dare take too long, lest the handler think he is overwhelmed by choice, and take it away from him again.

“Evgeni,” he says at last, raising his head. “Is that acceptable, Bucky?”

“Of course,” says the handler, smiling that soft smile. “That’s a great name. Evgeni.”

The Soldier (Alias:Evgeni) smiles back, warmth filling his chest. For once, he’s done something right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title and chapter titles from "It Will Come Back" by Hozier.


	2. Don't let it in (with no intention to keep it)

Bucky breathes a sigh of relief when they finally reach the motel. It is, as advertised, in the middle of nowhere, though its proximity to a Denny’s, a Hess station, and an interstate exit, and the presence of two tractor-trailers in the parking lot, suggest that it’s heavily frequented by truckers.

Sharon parks the SUV in front of the office, dons the hoodie she’d picked up at Walmart an hour ago, uses a pencil to put her hair up in a messy bun, and pops a stick of gum into her mouth. “I should have grabbed lip gloss,” she says. “How do I look?”

“Like a grad student who just escaped her younger boyfriend’s frat party and still has a hangover,” says Bucky. “Just make sure to squint a lot when you go in there.”

“Thanks.” She sticks the tip of her finger in the barrel of her gun, and rubs a little grease under her eyes, deepening the general impression of exhaustion. “How about now?”

“Perfect.”

She makes finger guns at him and slides out of the driver’s seat, slamming the door behind her.

It doesn’t take her long to return, waving the key on its plastic tag like a victory spoil. “Our room is on the other side. She said there’s a lot of empty rooms right now, so the others should be okay.”

Bucky nods, grateful to her for taking care of the small talk; he can be charming when he has to, but right now, he’s way too tired to think on his feet the way dealing with civilians would require.

In the motel room, Bucky scans the place for bugs while Sharon disappears into the bathroom with one of the Walmart bags. The shower starts up, reminding him of just how grimy he is, and how sore.

“Do you want to shower after her, or shall I?” he asks Evgeni, who is casing the room manually.

“I can go last,” he answers, after a short pause, and Bucky tries not to be too selfishly glad.

He showers more quickly than he’d really like to; his muscles and scars are protesting at today’s strenuous activity, and the hot water goes a long way toward soothing them. He changes into the jeans and t-shirt he just bought, drapes a towel around his shoulders, and returns to the room.

“Shower’s free. The hot water’s a little tricky—you have to turn it all the way to the left to get it warm enough.”

Evgeni gives him a surprised look. “ _Hot_ … water? Even for me?”

The implication of this is not lost on Bucky, but he summons up a bland smile. “Yup. Don’t skimp, now; we’ve had our showers, so don't bother saving the hot water for us.”

He nods, looking dazed, and heads toward the door.

“Wait—don’t forget your clothes,” says Bucky, handing him the last bag.

“Oh,” he says. Then, with a look of slowly-dawning pleasure, “ _Oh._ ” He takes the bag, and disappears into the bathroom.

The door shuts. The shower starts up. Bucky and Sharon look at each other.

She takes a deep breath. “So, are you gonna tell me what his deal is, or…?”

“I don’t really know,” says Bucky frankly. “Like I said, I found him locked up in this metal-tank thing—I guess it must have been some kind of cryogenic chamber, based on what he said in the car. He was really scared and disoriented when I first got him out…” He briefly describes what happened before he’d met up with her again, and watches her frown deepen as he talks.

“So they must have done something to his mind,” she says. “To make him more suggestible, I guess.”

“Yeah,” agrees Bucky. “I don’t know how far they got, though. I mean, he didn’t have any problem taking out the guys who attacked us, but—I think he thinks I’m some kind of, I don’t know, superior officer or something. I mean, I think he thinks I’m in charge of him.”

“He certainly seems to expect you to give him orders,” says Sharon.

“And he’s scarily invested in following them.”

“Yes.”

There’s a moment’s pause; then she says, gently, “You realize you can’t set him straight right now, right? There’s too much we don’t know about him, and we can’t afford him going rogue, when we don’t have backup or any way to contain him.”

Bucky grimaces. He’s been thinking along the same lines; after seeing Evgeni in action, he knows exactly how dangerous the man is, and since they’re sort-of-maybe on the run right now, this isn’t the time or place to take risks. Still, he _hates_ the idea of lying to someone as vulnerable as Evgeni. It’s one of the reasons he almost never does undercover work, opting instead for more active missions, or providing security for people SHIELD deems important and/or at risk. Like the assignment in Vienna…

He pushes away the memory, and focuses on the here and now. “I don’t want to hurt him,” he says quietly.

Sharon gives him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “I know.”

The shower turns off, and Bucky wracks his brain for something innocuous to say, figuring it’ll be suspicious to sit here in silence. He rubs absently at the back of his neck, digging the fingers of his right hand into the muscle there.

“Stiff?” asks Sharon.

“Yeah. I had to use a sound grenade, and those always fuck up my back.”

“You got your ointment with you?”

“Nah, left it in Stark’s car with the first aid kit. I’ll get it when the others get here.”

“Did you do your stretches?”

“Have I had _time_ to do my stretches?” he says irritably, then instantly feels bad. “Sorry. I haven’t had a chance to yet. I know I should do them, I just…”

“Don’t want to have to,” she supplies. Sharon probably knows him better than anyone, which means she also knows when his excuses are bullshit.

“Well, yeah. Guess I’m still trying to forget I’m not invincible,” he admits wryly. “But seriously, I’ll take care of it. I know you’re the mom-friend, but you don’t have to worry about me.”

Sharon draws back with an offended gasp. “Me, the mom-friend? _Me_? You know damn well that you’re the mom-friend in every single group we’ve ever been in. Even Cap doesn’t mother-hen us the way you do.”

“I’m not a _mother hen_ ,” Bucky protests. “I just don’t want you guys to get hurt, that’s all!”

“You tidied my _entire_ office last week,” she reminds him.

“Yeah, because you couldn’t find your desk! And that spider plant almost _died_ before I started watering it.”

“Oh, is that what happened? I wondered why it was looking so much better.”

The door to the bathroom opens, and Evgeni emerges in the clothing from Walmart. They’d bought a too-large t-shirt and flannel in the hopes of disguising his figure, and it sort of works: he looks, if anything, bulkier than before, but now it’s in a muscular-farmhand sort of way, as opposed to military-operative. With a baseball cap to cover his shaven head, and work boots instead of combat boots, he’ll pass for a normal rural worker.

Well, he will if he can manage not to walk with that purposeful prowl, like he’s about to murder something.

“Is this acceptable, Bucky?” Evgeni asks, indicating the clothing.

“Yeah,” says Bucky. “You look good, Evgeni.”

“I put my other clothes in the bag,” he says, holding it up. There’s a slight nervousness in his tone, and Bucky wonders how much that small decision had cost him, whether he had stood in the bathroom and worried over whether to leave the clothes there, or take them with him. Whether he is worried, even now, about being punished for the wrong choice.

“You did exactly right,” he praises, and the tense line of Evgeni’s shoulders eases.

The others show up a couple hours later. Sharon opens the door for them, and Clint and Tony enter first, followed by Sam, with Natasha bringing up the rear.

“Hey, Barnacles,” says Tony. “Is this the guy you found in the basement?”

“This is—”

Before he can get any further, Natasha steps out from behind Sam. Her eyes widen, and she whips her gun out of its holster, aiming squarely at Evgeni.

Bucky jumps in front of him, hands out. “Hey, woah, no need for that. This is Evgeni, he’s with me—”

“Barnes, get away from him,” she snaps. “That’s the Winter Soldier!”

Behind him, Evgeni says urgently, “Sir, your orders?”

“Barnes, get out of the way, before you get hurt!”

“Stand _down_ ,” Bucky says. “Listen, it’s fine, everyone’s fine—”

Evgeni is a solid wall of muscle right against his back; Bucky can feel his body heat through the three layers of fabric separating them. His right hand appears in Bucky’s periphery, holding a pistol.

“I said stand down!” snaps Bucky. “Evgeni, give me that thing, you’re not shooting anyone. Romanoff, put your gun away.”

Neither of them move.

“Barnes, that’s the Winter Soldier,” Natasha repeats. “He’s one of the deadliest assassins in the world, he’s _dangerous._ You need to move.”

“He’s not a danger to us,” says Bucky, but his mind is whirling, putting two and two together and coming up with a very unappetizing four. “Evgeni,” he says, swallowing. “You’re HYDRA, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” says Evgeni, puzzlement obvious in his voice.

The others are trained enough not to betray their surprise too much, but he sees Clint’s eyes widen just a fraction, and Tony turns his face away to hide his expression.

“Okay, great,” says Bucky, heart beating a desperate tattoo against his ribs. “And you take orders from me, right?”

“Yes.”

“See?” he says to the others, just barely keeping the hysterical edge out of his voice. “It’s fine, it’s all fine.” To Evgeni, he adds, “They just didn’t know about you. They weren’t briefed.” Then, in Russian, “ _Soldier, **give me the gun.** ”_

Reluctantly, Evgeni hands him the gun. Bucky clicks the safety on and holds it out to Sharon, the only person close enough to take it.

“Romanoff,” he says, hoping desperately that she’ll intuit what he’s doing and not just shoot them both on the spot. “He’s _on our side_ , will you _please_ put the gun down.”

Natasha stares at him for a long, fraught moment, then slowly holsters her gun. There’s a slight flurry of movement as Sam replaces his own gun, and Tony lowers a gauntleted hand.

Bucky draws a shaky breath. “Thanks,” he says quietly, and turns his back on his teammates to look at Evgeni. Some of his emotions must show on his face, because Evgeni’s mouth stiffens and he drops to his knees on the thin carpet, hands grasping his elbows behind his back.

“I’m sorry, Bucky,” he says quietly.

 _Oh, **fuck** this, _Bucky thinks furiously. _What the **hell** did they do to this guy?_

“You’re not in trouble, Evgeni,” he says, trying to keep his own voice even. “You were just trying to protect me.”

Evgeni looks up at that, his blue eyes wide and confused. “You… you’re not going to punish me?”

 _Oh, fuck fucking HYDRA with a saguaro cactus,_ thinks Bucky. “No, I’m not going to punish you.”

He doesn’t look like he knows what to do with that, so Bucky says, “Come on, why don’t you get up and I’ll introduce you to everyone?”

He holds out his hand, and Evgeni, after a brief moment of hesitation, takes it. Turning around, Bucky finds the rest of the team watching him with nearly identical blank expressions—the whole thing would be kind of funny if it weren’t so awful.

And if this whole thing didn’t have the potential to get them all killed.

“Evgeni, otherwise known as the Winter Soldier,” he says, tamping down the disbelief that these are actual words coming out of his actual mouth, “Meet the rest of my team. Sharon Carter you already know, and this is Natasha Romanoff…”

He lists them off, not mentioning their aliases, then makes eye contact with Sharon and says, “I need to debrief the others. Sharon is going to stay here with you, right, Sharon?”

“Right,” she says in a somewhat strangled voice.

“Do what Sharon tells you to, and don’t leave this room until I come back. Okay?”

There’s a certain look to his eyes, and a tilt to his chin, that makes Bucky think he wants to argue, but he just says, “Yes, Bucky,” in the same tone as usual.

Bucky releases a breath. “Okay, great. That’s… great. I’ll be back in a few minutes, okay?” He walks to the door, opens it, and doesn’t know whether to feel relieved or nervous when the Avengers follow him out.

As they walk silently across the parking lot, he hears Sharon’s voice through his earpiece: “It’s okay. The rest of us weren’t briefed that Bucky was retrieving you, that’s all. Most of us didn’t even realize you were HYDRA. You’re a… a very well-kept secret.”

“Bless you, Sharon,” he says aloud.

At the far end of the parking lot, there’s a picnic table under a cluster of large birch trees. Bucky drops down onto one of the benches and sighs, running a hand through his hair.

“Okay. I’m guessing you have questions.”

“Questions?” repeats Tony. “No, no, why would we have questions? Do you guys have questions? I don’t have any questions—oh wait, I guess I do have one tiny little question…” He puts both palms flat on the table and leans in. “What the HELL was that, Barnes?”

“I didn’t know he was HYDRA!” says Bucky, resisting the urge to lean backwards. “I went to investigate the—I guess it was a cryotube—and he fell out, I had no idea who he was. I sure as hell didn’t know he was the _Winter Soldier_ —which, considering I didn’t even know that was a real thing—and considering supposedly no one knows what he looks like—”

“He tried to kill me one time,” Natasha says. “I was escorting a nuclear engineer out of Iran. We didn’t even make it out of the country—he shot out the tires of the car, sent us over a cliff, threw me about thirty feet when I tried to cover my engineer, killed the guy, and when I kept fighting, he left me a knife scar to remember him by.”

“But he didn’t kill you,” Sam comments, folding his arms.

She shakes her head. “No. I could never figure it out—why he let me live. After he killed my engineer, I went after him with a vengeance, but he just—incapacitated me enough that I couldn’t follow him, and left.” Her eyes flick to Bucky’s. “We fought at close-quarters. Those eyes, the way he moves... I’d know him anywhere.”

“It’s a weird play,” murmurs Clint. “An assassin like that, whose whole rep relies on being a ghost story… it doesn’t make sense for him to leave a witness.”

“I know,” she says, sounding frustrated. “I know. Like I said—I could never figure it out. I looked for him, tried to find out more about him, for years, but there was no trace of him. Like he really was a ghost.”

“Well, he’s alive enough now,” says Bucky. “And I think—I think he needs help.”

Sam frowns at him. “You sure about this, Barnes? He might not be the kind of guy we can save. He’s the kind we usually have to stop.”

“He’s not in his right mind,” Bucky insists. “He doesn’t remember who he is, and he… You should have seen him in the car. I was, like, a little bit nice to him and he acted like I was the eighth wonder of the world. And he keeps asking if I’m gonna punish him. Well, you saw how he acted just now. He’s not—I think HYDRA did something to him. Coerced him somehow. He told us they wiped his memories—he doesn’t remember anything before they put him in cryostasis, right before I found him.”

“He looks kinda familiar,” Tony says, clearly following a different train of thought. “Doesn’t he look familiar to any of you?”

“Um, yeah, he tried to murder me, remember?” says Natasha irritably.

“No, other than that. I just feel like… I’ve seen him somewhere before. Somewhere else. I could swear…”

“Is that really the most important thing right now?” Clint asks. “I mean, what are we going to _do_ with him?”

They all look, automatically, to Sam. He looks wearily back at them. “Oh, man. Okay, I guess… look, Bucky, you’re sure he’ll take orders from you?”

“Yes,” Bucky says firmly. “He thinks I’m his handler. I mean, he also thinks I’m HYDRA, but… that’s fine. I can work with that.”

Sam rubs his face with his hand. “What even is my life,” he mutters, then looks up. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. Barnes, you’re in charge of the Soldier. Just… keep him out of trouble. We’ll just make sure not to say anything incriminating in front of him. We can deal with him once we’ve dealt with the HYDRA problem.”

_Right. The HYDRA problem._

“Yeah,” says Bucky slowly. “You wanna brief me on that?”

The look on Sam’s face says he very much does _not_ want to brief him on it, but he nods, somehow looking even wearier than before. “Okay, I’ll try to keep this short. You’re familiar with Project Insight?”

“No?”

“ _No_?” Clint echoes, sounding surprised. “Fury never mentioned it to you?”

Bucky shoots him an irritated glance. “How many times do I have to remind you that Fury doesn’t _tell_ me stuff? My job is to keep you guys out of trouble, and explain to Fury when you get into it anyway. I’m not, like, his confidant or something.”

The others’ postures relax, and he realizes that whatever this thing is, they hadn’t been sure he wasn’t mixed up in it. That he wasn’t keeping information from them. He tries not to let that hurt; he’s been working with them for nearly two years, and he’s always tried to do right by them, but, well. He’s never seen a set of people with so many trust issues outside of a therapy group, and it’s not like their paranoia is unjustified.

Still, it would be nice to be given the benefit of the doubt every now and then. God knows he’s earned it by now.

He sighs, settles his shoulders. Meets Sam’s eyes. “Okay,” he says, projecting a calm he doesn’t feel. “What’s Project Insight?”

The others look to Sam—thank God they trust _him_ , at least—but he doesn’t speak for a moment, clearly deciding what to say next.

“Okay,” he says finally, “I’m gonna give you a hypothetical scenario.”

“Okay,” says Bucky warily, wondering where this is going.

“Say you had a computer algorithm that could predict if someone was gonna do something—bad. Rob a convenience store. Blow up a government building. Capture a bunch of hostages. Whatever.”

Bucky, who likes to think he’s pretty good with computers, raises his eyebrows. “Can an algorithm do that? Reliably, I mean.”

“No,” says Tony.

Sam waves a hand. “For the sake of argument, let’s say it can do it perfectly. Let’s say it’s right every time.”

“Okay…?”

“So, in this hypothetical scenario, let’s say you have a group of helicarriers equipped with state-of-the-art weaponry, connected to satellites which can use DNA to lock onto anyone the algorithm designates as a threat. The helicarriers have long-range guns which can shoot anyone the satellites tell them to; they can take out a thousand people a minute. So, for example, if the algorithm says some guy is gonna shoot down a bunch of people in Texas? You can take him out. Immediately. Before he does anything.”

“Take him out… by killing him,” Bucky clarifies. “With guns. From space.”

“Essentially, yes.”

Bucky hesitates, looking around at them all. It occurs to him that he’s the only one sitting down, that they’re gathered in a semi-circle around him. _This is a test_ , he realizes, and it’s one he doesn’t know how to pass. “What exactly are you asking me?”

“If that was possible,” says Sam, watching him intently, “If you could eliminate threats with a touch of a button, before they even materialized—would you do it?”

“So I’m in charge, in this hypothetical scenario?” Bucky checks.

Sam shrugs. “If you like.”

Bucky forces himself to think about it, really think, not just go with his gut reaction. If you could truly prevent terrible things from happening—how many times has he imagined that day in Vienna going differently? How many times has he gone over it, wondering if there had been some way to predict it, prevent it, react differently? What would his life be like now, if the bomber had been eliminated before he ever got to the U.N.? It’s a tantalizing prospect, but he knows almost immediately that it’s a false one. There’s no algorithm he’d trust with people’s lives like that, and there’s no one in the world he’d trust with that kind of power, not even himself. Even someone with the best intentions, even the most advanced computer system, can make mistakes, and… no. Just, no.

“No,” he says aloud. “I mean, aside from the fact that it’s a huge violation of the Constitution and, like, an antithesis of how our justice system is supposed to work—I just—executing people for crimes they haven’t even tried to commit yet? That’s just _wrong._ Not to mention you’d have to sift through the private information of every person on the planet, which, there’s a reason you’re supposed to have a warrant for that shit.”

There’s a moment of silence. Then Natasha punches Sam in the shoulder, a little smirk playing across her face.

“See, I told you he’d come through.”

Sam makes a face. “Yeah, yeah, you were right.” He turns to Bucky. “I’ve been arguing with Nick about Insight ever since I found out about it a few weeks ago. I know he thinks he’s making the world safer, but if the price is holding a gun to everyone on earth… it’s not worth it.”

“Yeah,” says Bucky. “I take it he didn’t see it that way.”

“Not exactly,” Sam says grimly.

“He thinks you just don’t like the idea of the Avengers becoming obsolete,” says Natasha. “Or so I gathered, from a couple comments he’s made.” She glances at Bucky. “I didn’t know about Insight, either.”

“Until Sam called us all up yelling about it,” Clint adds.

“Well, yeah.”

Bucky carefully stops himself from saying, _Why didn’t you tell me?_ Instead, he says quietly, “Does Sharon know?”

“She does now,” says Natasha, touching her ear.

He tries not to let his expression give anything away: On the one hand, it bugs him that the Avengers still see Sharon more as a SHIELD agent than as a true member of the team, despite the fact that she’s been with them for longer than Bucky has. On the other, Sharon is his best friend, and the idea of her keeping secrets from him _hurts_. And, okay, maybe that’s why they don’t confide in her as much as they do in each other—they have to know that Sharon and Bucky keep very little from each other.

“Moving on,” says Tony, “When I hacked the computer system at the bank, their AI corrupted most of the files on it, so there’s only a little bit of usable intel. But just from that, I was able to gather that HYDRA’s somehow taken over Project Insight. My guess is, they’ll use the DNA targeting system to find people who oppose them—and once the helicarriers launch, it’ll all be over in minutes.”

“And when are they supposed to launch?”

“We’ve got eight days,” says Sam grimly. “ _If_ they don’t move up the launch date, now that they know we’ve discovered HYDRA is SHIELD.”

“Do they know we know about Insight?”

“Probably not? I blew up the servers once I was done extracting what I could,” says Tony. “And I’m pretty sure I destroyed their AI. It seemed to be confined to that computer system—no Internet access.”

“Well, that’s a relief.”

“I thought so,” Tony agrees. “That thing was _vicious._ "

Sam sits on the tabletop, resting his arms on his knees. “The plan, so far as we’ve discussed it, is to contact Nick, tell him what we know, and figure out how to sabotage the helicarriers. Once those are out of commission, we can start going after the people involved.”

“Do we know who the main players are?” asks Bucky. “You said—not Nick.”

“Not Nick,” Tony confirms, and Bucky breathes a sigh of relief. “They’ve actually scheduled a hit on him—which, we should probably let him know.”

“Among other things.”

“Among other things. But, to answer your question—no, not really. We think someone on the World Security Council has to be involved, but I need to do more digging to find out who.”

Sam glances at his watch. “Look, we’ve been out here awhile, we should get back. We’re gonna need to get rid of the HYDRA van and get more clothes and food and stuff. Now, in terms of contacting Fury…”

“I should really be the person to do that,” says Bucky. “If we’re sure HYDRA can’t locate us through the call.”

“I can deal with that,” Tony says. “I want to be in on that call, anyway.”

“So do I,” says Sam. “But I think we should sort through our intel first.”

“And take showers. And eat,” Clint adds.

“Yeah, that too.” Sam turns to Bucky. “We’ll let you know when it’s time to make the call. Aside from that, we’ll do our best to run our plans by you, but we’re going to have to sideline you for a lot of this, since…”

“Since I’ve got a HYDRA agent sticking to me like a remora,” Bucky finishes, resigned. “I know.”

“Keep your earpiece in,” he advises. “At least that way you’ll know what’s going on.”

“Alright,” says Bucky, getting up. “I’ll send Sharon out. Just…”

“Yeah?”

He takes a breath, meeting their eyes. “I just… I didn’t get this job because I was some kind of, of sycophant, or so I could spy on you. I’m here because I got blown up trying to save someone, and Fury thought I’d—I’d understand you guys a little better than some of the other agents.” _And because I needed something to do_ , he thinks, _and Fury took pity on me._ “I thought you knew that. But just so we’re clear—I’m on your side. I always have been.”

There’s a moment of silence, and he can tell he’s surprised them. Tony and Clint look a bit guilty, Natasha thoughtful, and Sam… for once, he can’t tell what Sam is thinking.

Bucky gives them a nod, then turns away, walking with measured steps back to the motel.

He makes the call an hour and a half later, once Natasha and Sharon have left to pick up supplies and get rid of the HYDRA vehicle, and Clint has been put in charge of the Soldier, cleaning guns with the windows open to clear out the fumes.

Bucky, Sam, and Tony have driven a short distance from the motel, just to be safe, and Tony swears up and down the call will be untraceable. Fury picks up on the first ring.

“Barnes? What the hell is going on?”

“It’s complicated,” says Bucky.

“ _Complicated_? The World Security Council wants your heads on a platter. Give me one reason why I shouldn’t give them to them.”

“I can give you several,” says Bucky calmly. Sometimes, he thinks the only reason he's kept this job is because he’s not easily intimidated—by Fury, or anyone else. Then again, getting blown up does tend to put things in perspective. Bucky has to lock himself in the bathroom on Fourth of July, but he can face down an irate Nick Fury without a tremor.

“I need you to call me back on a secure phone,” he tells Nick. “And not the one in your office. You need to assume that anything that’s so much as _touched_ SHIELD is vulnerable.”

“I see,” says Fury. “Well then, I’ll be in touch. Fifteen minutes.”

He hangs up.

“He never says goodbye,” says Tony. “Have you noticed that? It’s always just—” He mimes replacing a phone in its cradle, and makes a clicking noise with his tongue.

“It’s part of the aesthetic,” Bucky says idly. In his earbud, Clint is chattering away about his dog, which he claims to have stolen from the mob. Presumably, that means everything is alright.

“And yet when I do it, everyone just says I’m rude.”

“You _are_ rude,” Sam points out. “You do it on purpose.”

Tony waves a hand. “Only, like, 80% of the time.”

Bucky tunes them out, mentally preparing what he’s going to tell his boss. Fury is going to be _pissed._

As it turns out, that was putting it mildly. Fury is not just pissed, he’s—well, furious. Bucky thinks Fury’s mostly angry at himself, but he also has a few choice words about Bucky’s decision to adopt the Winter Soldier; “He’s not a fucking stray duckling, Barnes!” is about the mildest criticism.

“I stand by my decision, sir,” says Bucky, trying to keep his resurfacing doubts from entering his voice. “And I’m not going to let him endanger the team.”

“He’s clearly been coerced in some way,” Sam says. “I think we have a good chance of making an ally of him, if we’re careful about it.”

“And if he turns on you?”

“Then we’ll deal with it,” says Sam firmly, and suddenly he’s all Cap, straight shoulders and lifted chin. “This is our call, and we’ve already made it, Nick. Now, how about you tell us what you plan to do about HYDRA.”

Fury sighs deeply, but allows the change of subject. “We need more information. I had… had some concerns, a while back, and I made some arrangements which may prove useful.”

Tony leans forward, chin on his hand in an exaggerated pose of interest. “Do tell.”

“There’s a ship off the east coast, the _Lemurian Star_ , which is the base for the Insight satellites. Until the helicarriers are operational, all the information relayed to and from the satellites goes through its servers, as does a lot of other top-secret information. Lately, I’ve noticed some… troubling gaps in the information going in and out of it. Stuff that doesn’t add up.” He takes a breath. “In two days, a group of pirates is going to attack the _Star_ and hold the passengers and crew hostage. SHIELD will of course send a STRIKE team to rescue them—but before that happens, I need someone to find out what’s on those servers.”

Sam folds his arms, although Fury can’t see him. “So you’re asking us to steal information from a secret server on a ship taken over by pirates in the middle of a hostage situation?”

“Essentially, yes.”

There’s a pause. Then Tony shrugs. “I’m in.”

Sam sighs. “My teammates are all insane,” he announces, “So I’m pretty sure that’s gonna be a yes. We’ve still gotta get out there, though.”

“Hill will scramble a boat for you,” says Fury dismissively. “I’ll put her in touch with you as soon as I’ve briefed her.”

“Alright,” answers Sam. “We’ll be ready.”

“Oh, and keep a low profile. You’re all considered wanted fugitives and enemies of the state. There’s a nationwide manhunt out for you.”

“Good to know,” Sam says wryly. “We’ll be careful.”

“You better be.”

There’s a click, and Sam huffs an incredulous laugh. “That bastard just hung up on me again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "holding a gun to everyone on earth" line is from Captain America: The Winter Soldier. Steve says it in the movie, but I think Sam would have similar feelings.


	3. Honey, that's how it sleeps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone who has commented and left kudos on this fic! I live for comments. <3

They spend the night at the motel. Bucky loses an argument with Evgeni about whether Evgeni should sleep or not (the argument consists of Bucky explaining that Evgeni needs sleep, that it’s fine for him to sleep on the bed, and that Tony’s security setup will let them know if anyone tries to approach them. Evgeni says, “Yes, Bucky” to everything in a tone that makes it clear he thinks Bucky is an idiot, then goes to sit with his back against the door anyway). Bucky supposes it’s good to know that Evgeni does have a mind of his own (and a stubborn streak, apparently), but he still feels guilty when he wakes to find him still sitting there like an extremely muscular Buddha statue.

“I’ll take watch tonight,” he tells him as they bundle into Tony’s van that morning. “You need your rest, too.”

Evgeni’s eyebrows lower judgmentally. “My job is to protect my handler’s safety and wellbeing.”

“And my job is to ensure _you_ don’t hurt yourself because you won’t take a damn break,” Bucky retorts, clipping his seatbelt. “Look, at least try and take a nap in the car, okay? We’ve got a long drive ahead of us.”

Evgeni seems more amenable to this idea, probably because Bucky is surrounded by his teammates if anything happens. He curls up sideways on the bench seat, head in Bucky’s lap, and Bucky drapes his jacket over him.

Tony, who is squeezed into the back seat with Sam and Sharon, mouths “Awwww” at him and flutters his eyelashes. Bucky gives him the finger, then settles back in his seat, resting his hand on Evgeni’s back. He can’t help but feel a little proud of himself when Evgeni relaxes fully, his breath coming slow and deep as he finally falls asleep.

Apparently, Natasha has a safehouse outside of Baltimore, which she directs Clint to via an extremely circuitous route.

“And SHIELD doesn’t know about it?” Bucky checks.

Natasha rolls her eyes. “Of course not. Otherwise it wouldn’t be a _safe_ house, would it?”

It’s nearly dark by the time they arrive, and Evgeni is awake after sleeping only a couple of hours, though he hasn’t changed his position. Bucky’s legs are numb from the weight of his head, but he’s not about to mention it; truth be told, it’s kind of nice to have someone want to cuddle up to him like this, even if that person is a HYDRA super-assassin.

The house is set back from the road, with a brick wall, a screen of pine trees, and a privet hedge hiding everything but the roof from view.

“The great thing about gated communities,” says Natasha, typing something into her phone, “is that people expect you to have a gate.”

The gate in question swings open, then shuts the minute they’re through. The house stands before them—smaller than the rest of the McMansions on this street, but still decent-sized, with a combination of fake stone and wooden siding which Bucky has always found a little weird, and a lot of gratuitous rooflines. It does, however, have good lines of sight from the windows, which are narrow enough to be defensible, and the place where the rooflines meet would make a decent sniper nest if it should become necessary.

“How the hell did you afford this place?” Clint demands. “Our salaries aren’t _that_ good.”

She smirks. “Let’s just say I made some good investments.”

The inside is nice, too; it’s an open plan, with three exits all visible from the living room, and there’s a big central chimney that would provide good cover from anyone trying to shoot through the windows. The furniture is all graceful and sturdy, and would serve as barricades if they needed to block the doors or windows. Bucky’s room has a big queen bed, an attached bathroom, and a desk where he can set up a computer and monitors if he can get ahold of some.

Sharon pops her head in while Bucky is examining the internet jack and Evgeni is casing the room for bugs. “Maria’s setting up a drop point for us with supplies; Sam and Clint are gonna pick it up tonight. You need anything?”

“Well, if you want me on coms, I’m gonna need a computer, monitors, that kind of thing.”

“Write it down,” she advises. “You want pizza?”

“Is that even a question?”

She rolls her eyes. “It was rhetorical. Toppings?”

“The usual. Evgeni?”

“What?”

“What toppings do you like? On your pizza,” he clarifies when Evgeni just looks at him blankly.

Evgeni transfers his stare to Sharon, as though maybe she’ll make more sense.

“You haven’t had pizza before?” Bucky asks in disbelief.

He shakes his head.

“Okay. Shit. Um…” He turns to Sharon. “Why don’t you get one with just plain cheese, in case he doesn’t like the other toppings?”

“Okay.” She smiles at Evgeni, who just watches her suspiciously. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

Pizza, the Soldier— _Evgeni—_ thinks, is quite possibly the best thing ever invented—even better than the burgers they’d gotten yesterday, or the subway-sandwiches they’d had last night. This one is loaded with pepperoni and sausage and mushrooms, and it tastes like _heaven._ His handler has instructed him to eat as much as he wants, of any flavor, and he can hardly believe his luck.

“Okay,” says Stark, when he’s finished his slice. “So, as the only unbiased person here, you need to settle an important question.”

Evgeni tenses, shoulders hunching up toward his ears, and glances anxiously at his handler.

Bucky gives him a reassuring smile. “It’s okay, Evgeni. He’s exaggerating. It’s not important, and you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

“Um, _yes_ it’s important,” Stark retorts. “Okay, listen up, GI Joe. You’ve tried all the different kinds, right?”

He hesitates. “… of pizza?”

“Yes. Exactly. So, which is the best?”

Evgeni stares at him, then looks over his shoulder at his handler again.

“He just wants to know what toppings you like best,” says the dark-skinned man. Wilson. “It’s okay if you don’t feel like answering. And any answer is fine.”

“What he said,” his handler says.

Evgeni focuses again on Stark. “They were all good,” he says hesitantly. “But… I think… I. liked. That one best.” He points to the pizza with the fewest slices cut out of it, the one covered in pieces of ham and some kind of yellow fruit. ( _Pineapple_ , his subconscious whispers to him. _It’s called pineapple._ )

There’s an instant uproar, with Stark crowing in delight and Barton, Carter, and Romanoff shouting him down. Evgeni watches in bemusement as Stark offers him his hand, palm up. “Yes! Buddy, you’re the only person in this three-ring circus with any taste.”

“Pineapple on pizza,” Barton declares, “Is a travesty and a crime against pizzas everywhere.”

“It’s a _pizza topping_ ,” says Wilson, shaking his head. “It’s not that important. Why are you all like this?”

Stark ignores him. “Shut up, Barton, I’ve got a new best friend.” Then, to Evgeni, “Here, you want another slice?”

Evgeni shrinks back from him, anxiety welling up again, and turns to Bucky for assistance. “I’m not supposed to want things.”

Bucky makes a pained expression, rubbing his forehead as though it hurts him. “That was, um. Those were your… old operational parameters,” he says slowly. “Things have changed now. You’re allowed to want things, now. You’re allowed to ask for things, too.”

He’s not supposed to argue with his handlers, he _knows_ that, but he can’t help saying, “But that will cause lapses in discipline and focus.” He can’t stop the note of panic from entering his voice. “The Soldier should never express desire or feeling—”

“Buddy,” says Bucky. “Woah, calm down. It’s okay. Look at me.” He puts his hands on Evgeni’s shoulders, and Evgeni stills under his touch, all his focus going to those two points of contact.

“I need you to breathe, okay? Take a deep breath for me.”

The Soldier obeys.

“Let it out.”

He does.

“Okay, just… keep breathing, okay? You’re fine, you’re okay.” For some reason, he glances behind the Soldier, to where Wilson is sitting, then returns his focus to the Soldier’s face. “You’re not in trouble, you’re not going to be punished. Understand?”

He nods.

“Okay. So, we... that is, my superiors-- have decided that our former protocols were… inefficient. We can be more efficient if you tell us what you want or need, instead of me trying to guess. So we’re going to start using the new protocol, but since it’s new, it’s okay if you have trouble with it. I’m not going to punish you for making mistakes. Ever. Okay?”

“But without punishments… how will I get better?” he asks. His voice shakes. He shouldn’t ask questions, but this doesn’t make any _sense._

There’s a long moment where his handler just _looks_ at him, with a weird blank expression like he’s fighting down some emotion. Then, finally, he says, “The same way everyone else does. By learning from your mistakes.” He pauses, then adds, “Don’t worry, we’ll help you figure it out. You want more pizza?”

Evgeni nods cautiously, still reeling from this new development. Wilson hands him a slice, then adds, as though no interruption has occurred, “So, you like pineapple on your pizza, huh?”

He nods. “We could never afford pineapple. Except once, we got some in a can, at Christmas…” He trails off as what he just said registers, along with the brief image that had come along with it—a woman’s voice, a pile of yellow slices on a plate, and a feeling of surprised excitement.

“Bucky,” he says quietly, “Cognitive error. Memory resurfaced.”

“Can you describe it?” asks Bucky.

He does.

Bucky nods thoughtfully. “That memory is harmless,” he says. “There is no cause for concern.”

Evgeni is not entirely convinced, but he has already argued with his handler several times tonight; he doesn’t want to be thought disobedient or troublesome. Instead, he eats his pizza, and when Stark pushes more at him, he accepts it.

These new protocols are extremely strange, and he has a nagging feeling that it can’t possibly be good for him to have this much free rein, but he can’t help enjoying it while it lasts.

Bucky rests his forehead against the bathroom mirror, the glass cool against his forehead. He takes a deep breath, counts to seven, and lets it out. Then again. And again. And again.

_Deep breaths. Relax. You have to keep calm._

_God,_ this situation is fucked up. Evgeni needs _help_ , not someone lying to him and ordering him around. He at the very least should have imprinted on someone who was equipped to handle this; Sam is a trained social worker, why couldn’t it have been him? Or even Natasha, who at least has some experience in overcoming brainwashing.

All Bucky has is a semester of freshman Psychology and extensive personal experience with PTSD. Which is better than nothing, but…

Evgeni deserves better than that. He deserves better than _Bucky._

But that doesn’t matter now; they’re stuck with what they’ve got, and Evgeni will have to make do with Bucky’s fumbling attempts at remediation.

And Bucky will just… have to deal. Chin up, stiff upper lip, as Sharon’s very formidable great aunt liked to say. _We do the best we can with what we have_ had been another favorite saying of hers, and Bucky figures there are worse people to take advice from than the founder and first director of SHIELD.

He’s going to have to get used to the horrific things that Evgeni references so casually, and the abuse that he’s clearly been trained to not only accept, but _expect_ , maybe even _want._ The look on Evgeni’s face when he’d said _I’m not supposed to want things_ had just about broken Bucky’s heart.

Every time he looks at Evgeni, he wants to find the people who did this to him and rip them apart with his bare hands. The man is clearly intelligent despite whatever they’ve done to his memory and mind, sweet and brave and (Bucky half-shudders) loyal… He already knew HYDRA was evil, in the same abstract way Nazis are evil, but now he understands it on a personal level.

He’s got to get Evgeni free of their influence. He doesn’t know how the hell he’ll manage that, but surely there’s _some_ way….

He hears the bedroom door open, and the sound of voices—Evgeni and Sharon. He’s been in here too long.

With a sigh, he rinses his face, pats it dry, and goes to join them.

Evgeni comes out of the bathroom, having showered, brushed his teeth, and changed into pajamas in accordance with his handler’s wishes, and freezes.

Bucky is sitting on the bed, shirtless, with his elbows braced on his knees, while Carter sits cross-legged behind him, rubbing her hands over his bare skin. She glances up at Evgeni’s entrance, then switches her attention back to her task, leaving him to observe.

Bucky’s shoulders are broad and muscular, the planes and shadows of his back thrown into sharp relief by the light of the bedside lamp. Strangely, Evgeni finds himself imagining how he would draw this, picturing dark pencil strokes defining Bucky’s deltoids, white charcoal where the light glances off the tops of his shoulders, the subtler shading along the valley of his spine. His fingers itch for a pencil—odd, as the Soldier does not know, has never known, how to draw. 

The prosthesis starts just below Bucky’s left shoulder, flesh abruptly giving way to smooth black metal; the skin above it and around it is badly scarred, with more damage extending over most of his left side. Evgeni can see the waxy, slightly-melted-looking evidence of burns, and the raised ridges and puckers left by gashes and puncture wounds. Some type of traumatic injury, he guesses. He doesn’t think it’s from punishment, although it’s not impossible.

The idea that his handler might have been like him once makes his heart do something odd in his chest; he doesn’t know how to feel about it. It would explain why his handler is so understanding of him, but… somehow, he doesn’t want to think about Bucky in pain, or isolated the way the Soldier so often is. Even though it would only be done for his own good, to make him better—no. Surely _Bucky_ could never have done anything bad enough to warrant punishment; Bucky is _good._ He’s not like the Soldier.

Bucky’s hair is long and dark and smoothly shining, hanging around his face like a curtain. He makes a soft grunt as Carter digs in the heels of her palms, and the muscles in his back twitch. Evgeni swallows. For some reason, his mouth is suddenly very dry, and there’s a weird, constricted feeling in his throat.

He stays in the doorway, watching the gentle movement of her hands, listening avidly to the small sounds Bucky makes; the long inhales and soft exhales, the occasional grunt or hum as something in him loosens. Evgeni finds himself wishing he were in Carter’s place, rubbing the tension from Bucky’s limbs; he wishes he could make those soft sounds spill from Bucky’s lips, make his head dip lower and lower as his shoulders relax, or even just run his fingers through that silky hair.

He eyes Carter with dislike. It’s not just envy of her closeness with his handler; that, he knows, is his own fault, and moreover, is something he ought to strive not to feel. (Bucky says he’s allowed to want things now—does that mean he’s allowed to want what Carter has with him?) But there’s something else, too; a cognitive dissonance that assails him whenever he looks at her. He has a distinct feeling that she ought to be curvy and dark-haired and British, instead of a stocky, blonde-haired American. He doesn’t know _why_ he thinks that—just like he doesn’t know why Stark makes him nervous, or why Romanoff reminds him of a child when there’s nothing childlike about her.

Bucky sighs deeply, then sits up and stretches his arms above his head, the oil on his skin reflecting the lamplight.

“Better?” Carter asks.

“Yeah, way better. Thanks, Shar.”

“Any time.”

“I owe you.”

“ _So_ many coffees,” she agrees cheerfully, getting to her feet. “Maybe even a cupcake or two. Don’t worry, I’ll cash it in.”

“Well, that’s a weight off my mind,” he says dryly, pulling his shirt back on. He twists around, catching sight of Evgeni, and his expression closes off slightly. Evgeni tries not to feel hurt by it.

“You ready for bed, bud?” he asks.

Evgeni folds his arms. “It is my duty to stand guard,” he reminds him.

“Yeah, and you’re not gonna be able to defend anything if you’re exhausted,” Bucky points out. Then, before Evgeni can remind him of the Soldier’s capabilities, he adds, “Look, I’ll take first watch, you can take second. Okay?”

Evgeni looks to Carter, silently pleading for a voice of reason, but of course she betrays him.

“Sleep is important, Evgeni,” she says softly. “And you’ll be able to help Bucky better if you’re not tired tomorrow.”

He bristles at the implication that he wouldn’t be capable of defending his handler after a mere two sleepless nights, especially since he slept for two full hours in the car, but he doesn’t dare offer further objections.

“That’s settled, then,” says Bucky, in a tone that brooks no arguments. “Come on, take the bed.”

“I’ll get out of your hair,” Carter says.

Evgeni hardly notices her departure. He drifts closer to the bed, pauses at the head and gives Bucky a questioning glance, just in case he changes his mind.

Bucky nods encouragingly.

Slowly, Evgeni lifts the counterpane, fingers smoothing over soft sheets and thick blankets, and slides in, hardly daring to believe that this is his, that he’s allowed. Turning on his side, he draws the blankets up to his chin and looks at Bucky, seeking reassurance.

For a moment, his handler looks strangely sad; then he hitches a smile to his lips and pats Evgeni’s blanket-covered shoulder. “I’ll get the lights.”

He does so, then goes to sit in the computer chair near the window.

Anxiety spikes through Evgeni, and he can’t help blurting out, “Where are you going?”

“I was going to sit in the chair,” says Bucky. “You want me to sit with you, instead?”

 _He’s not supposed to want things, he’s not supposed to want things,_ but—Bucky had said he’s allowed to, now. Bucky wants him to express his wants.

“Please,” he whispers, and to his surprise, Bucky does as he asks, settling next to Evgeni with his back propped up against the headboard.

Strangely, Evgeni’s throat feels constricted again. “You’ll stay?” he asks softly, daring to lay a hand on Bucky’s thigh.

Bucky smooths his hand over Evgeni’s scalp, making him shiver with the unexpected warmth. “Of course, buddy. I’ll stay as long as you want.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Personally, I don't like Hawaiian pizza all that much, but I think pineapple would be a treat for St-- er, Evgeni, so... there it is. :)


	4. I know who I am when I'm alone (something else when I see you)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for canon-typical violence.

The next morning, Bucky sets up his monitors and communications array, and the rest of the Avengers leave to raid the _Lemurian Star_. It will take most of the day just for them to get into position, and there’s nothing he can do but wait until they need him on coms.

He sighs, watching the van disappear into the driving rain, and goes to wash the breakfast dishes. It’s going to be a long day.

It’s after sunset and his handler’s teammates have been gone all day when Bucky pockets his phone, stands up, and says, “C’mere, I need you to help me with something.”

Evgeni perks up. Bucky had told him to amuse himself, indicating the books and movies on the shelf in the living room, and while the book he’d picked ( _A Wrinkle in Time_ ) is fascinating, he hadn’t been able to shake the nagging feeling that he should be doing something more useful. “Yes?”

“Yeah, come down to the basement for a sec.” He heads to the basement door without waiting for an answer, and Evgeni follows curiously.

The basement is actually pretty nice, with a carpeted floor and whitewashed concrete walls; most of the space is taken up with rows of shelving, which contain everything from tools and replacement parts for various things to boxes of toilet paper. A good third of the space is devoted to nonperishable food items. Evgeni eyes the well-stocked shelves with approval; whoever had prepared this safehouse clearly thought of every eventuality.

Bucky drags a large plastic box off one of the lower shelves, then piles a couple of tackle boxes on top of it. “Think you could carry this upstairs for me?”

“Yes, Bucky.” He lifts the box smoothly from the floor and returns upstairs, feeling a little glow of pride at being able to help his handler, even with such a small task. Bucky follows him up, carrying a third tackle box in one hand and a plastic shopping bag in the other.

Back in the living room, Bucky pulls the lid off the biggest box to reveal a jumble of medical supplies.

“So, the tackle boxes are our first aid kits. The blue ones are supposed to have all the first aid stuff we might need in a fight or whatever, and the grey one is for medical stuff we might need individually, like Clint’s spare hearing aids and the cleaning kit for my arm. But it’s gotten all jumbled up, and most of the med stuff is in the big box, where we have to dig through for it. So what I’d like you to do is go through all of this, throw out anything that’s expired or broken, clean anything that needs cleaning, and sort everything into the tackle boxes. There’s a list on the inside of each of their lids with all the stuff that should go in there. Make a list of everything that’s missing or low, and everything that there’s duplicates of. Does that make sense?”

“Yes, Bucky.”

“Any questions?”

Evgeni bites his lip. “Should I write down the things I throw out?”

“Yeah, good catch. Definitely do that, too,” says Bucky, and Evgeni feels that warm sense of accomplishment again. “Okay, so you got this? Any other questions?”

“Yes, Bucky. I mean—I don’t have any questions.”

“Okay, great.” Bucky straightens up. “I have some work to do, so I’ll be in my room. I don’t want to be disturbed for the next couple—the next two hours, okay?”

For some reason, this makes Evgeni feel uneasy; Bucky has never told him not to disturb him before, or implied that Evgeni’s presence is disturbing. He pushes down the feeling. It’s not his job to question things; it’s his job to obey.

“Yes, Bucky.”

“Thanks, bud.” Bucky smiles at him, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

Bucky locks the door of his room, then heads to his monitors, slipping his headphones on as he goes. “Okay. I’m on. Sitrep?”

“We’re in flight distance of the _Lemurian Star_ now,” Clint reports. “Drones are in position. We’re preparing for takeoff, didn’t want to start without you.”

“Aww, you say the nicest things,” Bucky quips, checking the feed from the drones. Hill has commandeered a boat to get the team close enough for Tony and Sam to fly Sharon and Natasha out to the _Star._ The plan is for Sam and Sharon to take over the control room and get Bucky patched into the security feeds, while Tony and Natasha hack into the servers located deep in the bowels of the ship.

If they simply attacked the ship outright, they wouldn’t know which crew-members are HYDRA and which are just very unlucky SHIELD agents. With the pirates holding the crew and passengers hostage, they don’t have to worry about innocents getting caught in the crossfire—and with any luck, HYDRA will assume the Avengers were there to assist the hostages, not look for data.

“Okay, I don’t see any other craft around the ship, and the rain should cover your approach. You’re good to go.”

“Roger that,” says Sam. “Takeoff in three, two, one…”

Bucky waits, watching the little dots move across his screen. All of them have tracking devices, which show up on his digital map of the area; the two drones, hovering unobtrusively above the ship, give him an aerial view of the _Star._

The dots converge on the ship on one screen, while on another, the drones’ video feeds show Sam landing on the roof of the bridge, unstrapping Sharon from his body harness before they both duck down, taking the lay of the land.

“In position,” Sam murmurs. “Sitrep?”

Bucky taps the keyboard, sending one of the drones in a quick loop around the bridge. “Entrance is from the deck. Looks like two guards outside. Bridge has two people.”

Onscreen, he sees them trade a look.

“Window?” Sam suggests.

Bucky can hear the grin in Sharon’s voice. “Let’s do it.”

“It might be reinforced,” Bucky cautions.

“That’s okay. That’s what the shield is for.”

“Whatever you say, Cap. Ironman, Widow, what’s your status?”

“Threw a couple guys overboard,” says Natasha. “En route to server room now.”

“Be advised that I can’t watch your back until Thirteen hacks the security feeds.”

“Understood.”

There’s a crash, and Bucky shifts his attention back to Monitor 1, where the drone feed shows Sam and Sharon engaged in combat with the pirates on the bridge. The guys they’re fighting are good, but they’re no match for the particular blend of grace and ruthlessness that is Sam and Sharon fighting together. The whole thing is over in about a minute, and shortly after that, his third monitor comes to life with the ship’s security feeds.

“Ironman, Widow, I’ve got your backs,” he announces. “You’ve got three hostiles down the corridor to your left, you might wanna take them out.”

“Easy peasy,” says Tony, and fires three quick repulsor blasts, knocking the pirates out cold.

The mission goes almost suspiciously smoothly: Sam, Sharon, Natasha, and Tony are more than a match for the pirates, and Tony’s experience with the bank’s servers enables him to successfully hack into those on the _Lemurian Star_. They leave fifteen minutes before the STRIKE team is scheduled to arrive, without setting off any alarms—they dispatched all their assailants before they had a chance to raise an alarm or call for backup.

“Well, I’d call that a successful mission,” says Sam, once they’re back on the boat. “How are things at your end, Barnes?”

Bucky glances at the clock. “Good. I’ve got him sorting out all our medical stuff, it should take him a while longer.”

“Uh oh,” says Tony.

“What?”

“So, I’m looking at the data—”

“That was fast—”

“I’m a fast guy. Anyway, there’s a lot here, but, first off, the news about who’s HYDRA is pretty bad.”

Bucky rubs his temples. “Great. Lay it on me.”

“Well, literally all the STRIKE teams, not just the one we encountered. About half the tech department. They’ve got seventeen people in the Senate, and, geez, _forty-six_ in the House. And we were right about Pierce—apparently he’s the head of the whole shebang, at least on this side of the Atlantic.”

“Jesus,” Sam says. “This is such a mess.”

“I can’t believe how deep this thing goes,” says Bucky. “I mean, God, I knew they were evil, but this is just… it’s _sick._ I can’t believe there are people who willingly sign up for this.”

“Oh, it gets worse,” Tony informs them with manic cheer. “You know how we thought they were using that algorithm to eliminate people who go against them?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, it’s worse than that. Turns out, the algorithm doesn’t just target people who are active threats to HYDRA—it targets _potential_ threats, too. There are _high school students_ on here. And I’m not talking about Spiderman.”

“Spiderman’s a high school student?” Clint asks interestedly.

“Let’s not get sidetracked,” says Sam. “So, anyone who has potential…”

“Yeah. Not just military, not just politicians. Tons of innocent people. God, this girl’s only fourteen years old.”

“Holy _shit_.”

“What the hell have they got against her?”

“Apparently she wrote an essay about police brutality.”

“Fuck,” says Sharon.

“Yeah,” Clint agrees.

“Man, _fuck_ HYDRA,” says Bucky vehemently.

He thinks of Evgeni, stripped of his identity and treated like nothing more than a weapon, a machine. He thinks of all the innocent people slated to die in HYDRA’s quest for control.

 _Not if I can help it_ , he thinks. _I don’t care what it takes, I’ll see them fucking burn._

Sorting through the medical supplies is a monotonous task, but it’s the kind Evgeni likes: predictable, soothing. His instructions are clear; there are no variables. It’s important, but there is very little chance of failure.

He checks off items on the little chart, marks the ones missing, and carefully fits each item into its designated spot. A bottle of iodine has leaked all over the cloth bandages, so he leaves them to soak in a dishpan of soapy water, and wipes the sticky brown liquid off the various bottles and jars, checking to make sure none of the iodine got inside.

The two hours slip by quickly, and he’s nearly finished when he gets to the section for Bucky’s supplies in the grey box, and finds some of them missing.

Frowning, he glances down the list again. The repair kit for Bucky’s prosthesis is there, along with a little bottle of cleaning solution, but the muscle-soothing cream and heat packs he uses to ease his back and shoulder aren’t there.

Now that he thinks about it, he remembers Bucky using them last night; they’re probably still up in his room. He might want to keep them there for now, but the heat packs need to be boiled again to be useful, and Evgeni doesn’t want to leave his task uncompleted—at least, not without letting his handler know that he tried.

He glances at the clock. His handler had said not to disturb him for two hours, and it’s been two hours—but he knows that sometimes handlers aren’t completely literal. Bucky might have meant not to disturb him until he was done, or until Evgeni was completely done with his task.

But he can’t finish if some of the items are still in Bucky’s room.

After deliberating for several minutes, he decides he’ll just… go check. Maybe he’ll get lucky, and Bucky’s door will be open. And if not… he can listen, and if it sounds like Bucky isn’t too busy, he’ll knock, and ask about the heat packs.

And Bucky will know that he tried, that he _is_ trying, that he didn’t leave anything undone deliberately.

And if Bucky punishes him, then…

 _Then I’ll deserve it,_ he tells himself, starting up the stairs. _And the pain will make me better._

Bucky’s door is still closed.

Evgeni hesitates outside, hand half-raised to knock, debating whether he should simply go back downstairs and wait for another half hour; no one need know that he finished earlier, and he’s not _disobeying_ by waiting….

“… how deep this thing goes,” says Bucky’s voice, from inside the room. He must be talking on the phone. “I mean, God, I knew they were evil, but this is just… it’s _sick._ I can’t believe there are people who willingly sign up for this.”

He’s speaking quietly; a normal person probably wouldn’t be able to hear him through the closed door, but of course, nothing about Evgeni is normal. He knows he shouldn’t listen in on a private conversation, but Bucky sounds upset, and somehow he can’t make himself walk away.

He doesn’t want Bucky to be upset. Not just because unhappy handlers generally take out their frustrations on the Soldier, but because… because… He doesn’t know why. He just knows that Bucky _shouldn’t_ be unhappy, and that if he, Evgeni, can do anything to make him feel better… he wants to. He’s not supposed to want things, but maybe it’s alright if what he wants is to make his handler happy.

“Holy _shit_ ,” he hears Bucky say, and then, with surprising venom, “Man, _fuck_ HYDRA.”

Evgeni goes cold.

Surely—surely he can’t mean what it sounds like—surely there’s some explanation— He presses his ear to the door.

“I mean, the idea of Insight was bad enough when we thought it was targeting their _current_ enemies, but this?”

A pause. Bucky sighs. “Yeah, I know. Okay. Let’s take these bastards down.”

Another pause.

“I mean, obviously, I’m all for taking out Pierce, but their catchphrase is literally ‘cut off one head, two more shall take its place’, I don’t think that’s gonna be enough.”

 _No._ Evgeni stares blindly at the door, his palm pressed against the wood. He can’t deny it any longer; the Soldier is not in the practice of letting emotions cloud his judgment. His handler— _Bucky—_ his handler is a traitor to HYDRA.

The door is locked, but it doesn’t have a deadbolt. The Soldier jerks the handle, and the lock breaks under the pressure, barely making a sound as he pushes the door inward.

Inside the room, he pauses. The traitor is sitting with his back to the door, intent on the monitors in front of him, which display diagrams and rows of data. He has headphones on; he hasn’t heard the Soldier enter.

“I feel like our first priority is to make sure the helicarriers stay grounded, though.”

The Soldier ghosts over to the dresser, where ~~Bucky~~ the traitor’s gun is lying, fully loaded.

“Okay, yeah, good point. Look, I’d better go, I told him two hours and it’s been longer than that—you’ll catch Fury up on this?”

He clicks off the safety.

“Okay—good—great—bye—”

The Soldier stalks forward.

Bucky ends the call, hunching his shoulders as he registers a slight draught coming from the door.

The door that should be shut, but when he turns his head, is standing open.

Too late, he realizes he should have been paying more attention to his surroundings.

Too late, he realizes that anyone listening in just now could guess that he _isn’t_ HYDRA.

Too late: before he can move, he feels the cold kiss of a gun muzzle against the back of his head.

“You are not HYDRA,” says Evgeni coldly.

Bucky turns off the monitor, so he can see the other man’s reflection; with his pale face and shadowed eyes, he looks like a ghost.

“No,” he says, as calmly as he can. “I’m not.”

“You’re working against them.” Evgeni’s face is hard, his expression blank; for the first time, Bucky feels that he is truly seeing the Winter Soldier.

“Yes.”

“You should be killed, for trying to sabotage them.”

 _“You should be_ ,” Bucky thinks, in the cold, analytical part of his mind that can process these things. _Not “I will”. “Them”, not “us”._ Maybe he has a shot, here.

“Are you going to do it?” he asks, and he’s proud of how steady his voice is.

“I am not allowed to hurt my handler, unless a higher authority dictates it,” Evgeni recites.

“I’m not your handler,” says Bucky. “You know I’m not.”

In the monitor’s reflection, the Soldier physically flinches, his mouth falling open as though in response to a blow. “But you knew the words,” he says, almost plaintively. “How…?”

Bucky briefly closes his eyes, then opens them. “Buddy, I don’t know what words you’re talking about. I found you by accident. I thought you were a prisoner; I thought you understood I was rescuing you. Then I realized you thought I was your—your handler, and… well, it wasn’t really safe to tell you any different.” He pauses; then, because he feels like it’s important, and he’s probably going to die anyway, he adds, “I never outright lied to you; I just left some things out. But I’m sorry, anyway. I didn’t like misleading you.”

“You think apologizing is going to save you?” demands the Soldier.

Bucky starts to shake his head, remembers the presence of the gun, and grimaces instead. “No. But I owed you an apology, so. There it is.”

There’s a long pause; Bucky can’t read his expression. He tries to slow his breathing, to remain calm, fighting back the fear that’s crawling at the back of his throat and pressing on his lungs. His palms are sweating, sticking to the vinyl arms of the chair. 

He takes another deep breath, counting in his head. _In, one, two, three—_

Suddenly, the world tilts and spins, and Bucky throws out a hand, striving for balance, before he realizes Evgeni has flung his chair backwards, catching it at the last moment so that Bucky is suspended, his head nearly brushing the floor.

The Soldier grabs him by the front of his shirt, hauling him upright, and hurls him backward onto the bed.

Bucky lands with a bounce, arms wheeling for balance, then stills when Evgeni levels the gun at him again.

“ _Why_?” Evgeni demands, He sounds _anguished_ , his face twisted as though in pain. “Why would you sabotage them?”

About to spit some sarcastic response, Bucky stops himself. This is Evgeni, he reminds himself. It’s very possible that he truly doesn’t know. He takes a breath, composing himself, and looks Evgeni in the eye, trying to communicate the truth of what he’s saying.

“They’re going to kill millions of innocent people, Evgeni,” he says softly. “They want to control the whole world, and they don’t care who they hurt to get there. They’ve already hurt so many people, killed innocents, torn families apart. That’s who they are. That’s what they do.”

Evgeni shakes his head fast, his eyes wide and panicked. “N—no, you’re wrong. You’re wrong. They—they want peace, HYDRA wants to achieve peace. Peace comes through order. Order comes through pain.”

“Order comes through pain, huh?” says Bucky softly. “Is that the excuse they gave, when they hurt you? When they sent you out to kill?”

He doesn’t answer, but his hand flexes on the gun, and his jaw clenches and unclenches.

“I want peace, too,” Bucky says, maintaining that painfully gentle tone. “But not if it comes at the cost of freedom. Not if it causes people suffering. The kind of peace that comes out of a few people dictating to everyone else, and hurting them if they disobey? That’s not peace. You look at any time in history, and that never lasted. When you push people down, they rebel. You kill people who stand up to you, and their kids will kill you. You can’t kill everybody.

“Kindness, now. Kindness does something. Fairness. Justice. You treat people fair, you give ‘em kindness and respect, you make sure they have enough to live on, you help them when they’re down… _that’s_ how you get true peace. Not whatever bullshit New Age dictatorship HYDRA’s trying to sell.”

Evgeni stares at him, apparently lost for words. The gun has drooped, now aimed somewhere to the left of Bucky’s shoulder. “Do you have proof,” he says at last, his voice perfectly flat.

“Other than what they did to you?” Bucky responds, and feels a mixture of triumph and pity when Evgeni lowers his eyes. “Yeah. That Project Insight, that we’re trying to stop? They’re using a computer algorithm to target and kill everyone who might ever challenge them. Not their enemies right now—people who have the _potential_ to move against them. Kids. Teenagers. College students.”

He pushes himself upright, letting his conviction show in his expression and voice. “What HYDRA’s offering isn’t peace, Evgeni. They’re putting a gun to everyone in the world, taking everyone’s choices away—like they did to you.”

The gun wavers, then lowers, pointing at the floor. Evgeni’s face is sickly pale; he looks nauseated. “I don’t know what to do,” he whispers.

“What do you want?” Bucky asks. “Not what they told you, not what you think you should say—what do _you_ want?”

He raises a trembling hand to his mouth, hiding his expression. When he speaks, his voice is barely audible. “I want to be good.”

Bucky’s heart breaks. The gun, and the Winter Soldier’s reputation, feel inconsequential in the face of the sheer travesty of what has been done to this man.

It would be so easy, right now, to twist this to his advantage; Evgeni is practically begging to be told what to do, and Bucky’s kindness has probably done far more to gain his trust than his little speech just now. He could tell Evgeni that he will teach him how to be good, that by following Bucky’s orders, he can attain what he wants—but then Bucky would be no better than HYDRA.

If this is a mistake, if he dies for this, at least he’ll go with a clear conscience.

He takes a deep breath, lets it out. “A good man,” he says, “thinks for himself.”

A sort of hopelessness enters Evgeni’s expression, and his shoulders slump. “I don’t… I don’t know how. I don’t understand.”

 _And Dad said that minor in Ethics was gonna go to waste,_ Bucky thinks, somewhat hysterically. _Wait ‘til I tell him… oh, God, I can never tell him about this, ever._

“We’re defined by our choices,” he says, skipping the lecture on different philosophical schools he’d be tempted to give at any other time. “You’re not good because I say you are, or because HYDRA says you are. You’re good because you try to _do_ good—because you act with the intention of helping people, or making the world a better place, in whatever way you can. Even if it’s just, I don’t know, paying for someone’s coffee, or trying to make them smile. And it’s subjective as hell,” he admits, trying to muster a smile. “One person’s idea of helping might be the opposite of someone else’s. But that’s why you have to think for yourself. You have to learn about the situation, evaluate it, decide what the best course of action is based on the information you have available. That’s… that’s our responsibility, as human beings. You can’t let someone else make those choices for you. You have to make them for yourself.”

He pauses, realizing that probably sounded overly judgmental, and adds more gently, “HYDRA took away your choices, Evgeni. To me, that’s unforgivable. But HYDRA’s not here right now, and you have a choice to make.” He swallows, his heart beating faster. “You need to make it now.”

For a moment, Evgeni looks confused, like he doesn’t know what Bucky’s talking about; then his eyes widen, and he glances down at the gun in his hand. For a long, tense moment, he simply stares at it. Then he flicks the safety on and hands it, grip first, to Bucky.

Bucky exhales in what feels like the first time in years, and quickly removes the clip, ejects the round from the chamber, and lays the gun on the nightstand.

Only then does he look at Evgeni. “Thank you,” he says quietly.

He nods, a short, sharp jerk of the head, then collapses onto the bed next to Bucky, hiding his face in his hands. There is no longer any trace of the Winter Soldier in his bearing; all Bucky can see is Evgeni, hunched and trembling in the wake of their confrontation.

Bucky is exhausted, his calm threatening to fall apart now that the crisis is over, but he has enough left to scoot closer and wrap his arms around the other man’s shoulders, pulling him in close.

“It’s okay, Evgeni,” he murmurs. “It’s okay, I got you. You’re gonna be okay.”


	5. Hold me just like that

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all your comments, guys! I really appreciate the encouragement. :)
> 
> Content warning for description of a past traumatic event.

Bucky waits until Evgeni seems a little calmer before pulling away. “I’m gonna go take a shower,” he says. “Will you be okay until I get back?”

Evgeni nods, but doesn’t speak. Bucky pats him on the shoulder one last time before heading to the bathroom.

He closes the door and turns on the water; only then does he collapse. Curling up on the bathmat, he presses his hands to his eyes and lets himself cry like he wants to, ugly heaving sobs that he hopes will be covered up by the sound of the shower. His entire body is trembling, and he feels sick to his stomach, the fear and shock he’s been repressing for the last half hour finally set loose.

This is far from the first time he’s nearly been shot doing this job, and he’s used to the shakiness that follows the rush of adrenaline, but this is another thing altogether. This doesn’t feel like another part of his job, or a confrontation with the enemy. This feels like the betrayal of a friend.

And that’s the problem—despite his better judgement, Bucky had allowed himself to care about Evgeni, and to think of him as a friend. Even though he’d known what the consequences would be if Evgeni found out he wasn’t HYDRA, this had still come as a shock, because he just hadn’t been able to believe that Evgeni was truly loyal to them.

And, well. He hadn’t been _wrong_ , exactly, but… _That was way too close_ , he thinks to himself. _Way, way too close. What the **hell**_ _was I thinking?_

He knows what he was thinking. Worse, he knows, if he were to do it over, he’d probably make the same choices all over again.

He can make hard choices in the moment, on the field of battle, but there’s no part of him that can bring itself to treat Evgeni with anything less than kindness, when HYDRA’s abuse of him is so clear to see. He can’t help but like him, can’t help but feel sorry for him, and he knows that if the whole scene were to play out again, he would take the same risks; he knows if Evgeni were in his sights, he couldn’t take the shot.

 _I’m going crazy_ , he thinks, and laughs, an ugly, hysterical sound in the midst of his tears. He hiccups, wipes his nose on his sleeve, and tries to get ahold of himself.

_It’s okay. It’s okay, you’re not dead, everything’s going to be fine._

He sits up, letting his head thunk back against the side of the tub. Absurdly, he thinks of calling his mom, of spilling out the whole story, the way he’s told her about failed dates and crappy apartments and job-hunting woes, and, yeah, all the times he’d cried on the phone to her when he didn’t think he’d ever be back to normal after the explosion…

He can’t tell her about this, she’ll freak.

Also, it’s a major breach of opsec.

Also also, there’s probably nowhere in this house he can talk to her without Evgeni hearing (unless it’s in here with the water running, and then _she_ won’t be able to hear him), and he just can’t deal with that right now.

He doesn’t want to think about how good Evgeni’s hearing might be, or the likelihood that he just heard Bucky’s breakdown.

_Come on, Bucky, focus._

Laboriously, he gets to his feet, turns the heat of the water up, and starts shedding his clothes. When the temperature has risen to just below scalding, he steps in, letting it wash away the tears and sweat of the last hour.

Once clean, he pulls his sweatpants on again, turns his nose up at his sweat-soaked t-shirt, and wraps a towel around his shoulders. Fishing his phone out of his pocket, he sends a quick text to Sharon with an update on the situation before returning to the bedroom.

Evgeni, of course, is waiting for him, sitting cross-legged on the bed with a kicked-puppy expression that makes Bucky want to melt and scream at the same time.

He compromises by nodding at him on the way to his suitcase for a t-shirt.

“Your scars,” says Evgeni quietly, as Bucky rummages in his suitcase. “Were you—are those from punishments?”

Bucky swears under his breath and turns around, meeting Evgeni’s serious blue gaze.

“No,” he says. “The people I work for, punishments are mostly things like doing a lot of paperwork. Sitting through extra safety briefings. Not getting to go on missions for a while. That sort of thing. The stuff HYDRA did to you, that—that’s not normal. It’s not right.”

“But you got hurt,” says Evgeni, refusing to be sidetracked. His eyes are still fixed on Bucky’s chest, on the burn marks spreading outward like a sunburst from his left side.

Bucky pulls the t-shirt over his head, drapes the towel over his shoulders to catch the drips from his hair, and flops onto the bed beside Evgeni, lying on his back.

“I was at a UN conference,” he says. “The king and crown prince of Wakanda were attending for the first time, SHIELD wanted to make sure it went smoothly.” He pauses, swallows. Even now, two years and a lot of therapy later, it’s hard to talk about. “There was a bomb.”

Evgeni makes a small noise, of surprise or concern— Bucky isn’t sure.

“I realized what was happening a second before it went off,” says Bucky softly, staring up at the ceiling. “It gave me enough time to push them down, to shield them. They said later I saved their lives. The last thing I remember is trying to cover them with my body. And then I was waking up in a Wakandan hospital, and my arm was gone.”

He takes a deep breath in through his nose, lets it out through his mouth. “The burn scars are from the blast. My arm… I guess it got all tore up by the shrapnel. Nothing they could do to save it.” He musters a smile, and says the line that usually works on anyone who’s feeling too sorry for him. “But hey, silver lining—turns out the Wakandans are really good at making prosthetic limbs, so at least there’s that.”

Evgeni doesn’t latch onto this more cheerful line of thought the way most people do. Instead, his brow furrows, and he says, “But it still hurts you. Yesterday and today, you were stiff.”

 _Of course he noticed that_ , Bucky thinks, almost sourly, but there’s an undercurrent of fondness to it. “Yeah. With the car ride yesterday, and the rain today, it—it tends to make things worse, when it’s damp like that.”

“In the first aid kit,” he says. “Your heat packs were missing.”

“Yeah, I used them last night.”

There’s a pause. “I could,” says Evgeni, not looking at him, “I could, if you wanted… I could rub your back.”

Bucky watches him, trying to work out what exactly he’s offering, and why. “If this is your way of apologizing, you don’t have to. I’m not—I’m not angry, or anything.”

“It’s not an apology—well, not _just_ an apology,” he amends. He sneaks a little sideways glance at Bucky from under his lashes. “This is all… a lot. But—I don’t want you to hurt. And I thought. This. This is one good thing I can do.”

“If you want to give me a back rub, I won’t say no,” says Bucky, relenting. “Just… you know, don’t feel like you have to.”

“I know,” says Evgeni. “It was my idea.” There’s a note of surprise to his voice, like he just realized this. “It was _my idea._ ”

Bucky smiles a little. “Okay, then. I’m in your hands.”

Evgeni’s hand slides over Bucky’s stomach, down to the hem of his shirt. It’s a startlingly intimate gesture, and Bucky finds himself holding his breath, anticipating… He’s not sure what.

“Can I…?”

Bucky exhales, shakier than he would like. “Yeah, um. How do you want me?”

“Shirt off. And—on your stomach.”

He nods, sitting up to remove his shirt and trying not to get too tense about it. He’s very aware of how vulnerable he’s making himself, of the fact that the man next to him was ready to kill him less than an hour ago. But Evgeni is watching him with those big blue eyes, and there’s something tremulous and fragile in the curve of his mouth and set of his eyebrows—and somehow, Bucky can’t bear to deny him.

“Do you know how to do this?” he asks, settling on his stomach.

“Yes. I watched when Carter did it.” Evgeni picks up the massage oil, and pools some in his hand.

“Of course you did,” says Bucky, amused.

“Was that bad?” Evgeni smooths his hands over muscle and scar tissue, so light Bucky can hardly feel it.

Bucky closes his eyes. “No. I knew you were there. I just… didn’t realize you were paying such close attention.”

“I always pay attention to you.”

He bites back the bubble of hysterical laughter trying to escape his throat. “Uh, yeah, I’m beginning to see that.”

“I looked at the files Stark sent you,” says Evgeni, pressing down a little more firmly. “While you were in the shower.”

“Is this a confession, now?”

“No, I… I wanted to tell you that. I saw. What you said, about us—about HYDRA. It was all true.”

His fingers dig into Bucky’s trapezius. There’s a brief flare of pain, then relief as the muscle loosens.

Bucky sighs. “I told you I was done lying to you.”

He’s silent for a long time; long enough that he’s worked much of the tension out of Bucky’s back before he speaks again.

“You have been so kind to me,” he says at last, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t understand why.”

“Because they hurt you,” says Bucky. “Because you’re a person. Because you deserve a chance to make your own choices.”

Evgeni’s breath hitches, then evens out. He digs the heels of his palms into Bucky’s shoulders, working out the knots, and Bucky thinks of being clay, of being molded and made new beneath a sculptor’s hands. Those hands, scarred and callused with violence, glide over his skin like butter, bringing healing instead of devastation. _Almost the first choice he’s made,_ he thinks, awed, _and he chooses to heal._

Slowly and steadily, Evgeni reduces him to a puddle of released tension and weariness, too relaxed to lift his head or even open his eyes. At some point, Bucky feels something cool being rubbed over his skin, and realizes Evgeni is applying the anti-inflammatory ointment. He makes an inarticulate murmur of appreciation, too far gone to bother speaking.

The covers are pulled out from under him, then draped over him. There’s a moment of palpable hesitation before Evgeni’s hand brushes softly against his cheek, caressing for just a moment before he withdraws.

Bucky cracks an eye open in time to see him backing away, a look of unbearable wistfulness on his face.

“Wait,” he croaks.

Evgeni stops, a few feet from the bed.

“Come here. Stay.”

His eyes widen, hope and uncertainty warring in his features. “With—with you?”

“Yeah. There’s—plenty of room. I mean, if you want.”

“I want,” says Evgeni fervently, and climbs in.

It should feel weird, Bucky thinks, or at least awkward. He should probably feel at least a little anxious about having the Winter Soldier in bed with him, even if he _has_ decided to defect. But this feels right, like this is how it’s supposed to be. It feels _safe_.

The Winter Soldier snakes an arm around his waist, drawing him in close, and Bucky goes easily, scooching backward until he’s firmly ensconced in the other man’s embrace. Evgeni makes a soft sound of pleasure, and one large palm comes to rest on Bucky’s chest, right above his heart.

“Is this good?” Evgeni whispers. His breath is warm, his body a solid line of heat at Bucky’s back.

“So good,” he mumbles, reaching back to pat Evgeni’s cheek. “’s perfect.”

Evgeni’s only answer is a soft press of lips against the back of Bucky’s neck, and a slight tightening of his arms around Bucky’s torso. The touch gives Bucky a little thrill, spreading outward from that spot like ripples from a fish jumping, making his heart beat just a little faster, his skin tingle with possibility.

 _Ah_ , Bucky thinks muzzily. _So it’s like that._

It’s a problem for tomorrow, he decides. Right now, he is safe, warm, and comfortable, and there’s a gorgeous man cradling him tenderly in his arms; everything else can wait.

Evgeni lies awake, one arm wrapped around Bucky’s waist, the other hand splayed over Bucky’s chest to feel the reassuring thump of his heartbeat. Bucky’s hair is soft against his face, his body warm and lax with sleep.

The Soldier is used to burying his emotions, but Evgeni doesn’t want to get rid of the feelings he has now, for all that they threaten to overwhelm him; his chest is full of warm, soft things, joy and gratitude and wonder and admiration. His heart feels like it’s overflowing with the astonished pleasure of having Bucky sleeping easily in his arms.

He does not understand in the least how Bucky can trust him after what happened this evening, or how he can possibly feel safe in the same room as the Winter Soldier, but… apparently, he does. There’s no way he would let himself be so vulnerable, otherwise. Evgeni feels all warm and trembly when he thinks of Bucky giving his back to him, allowing him to touch him and make him feel better.

Bucky’s breathing is deep and even, his right hand resting gently on Evgeni’s wrist, as though to keep him from moving. His dark hair is fanned out over the pillow; Evgeni can smell the faint cedar smell of his shampoo, and the stronger wintergreen scent of the massage oil.

The nape of his neck is bare and smooth, and Evgeni wants to kiss it again. He hadn’t been able to help himself, earlier—Bucky had looked so cozy and relaxed, and his skin was _right there_ , and Evgeni had been filled with the helpless need to do _something_ about it, and so—he’d kissed him.

He wants to kiss him again—wants to kiss his hair, and his closed eyelids, and the hollow of his collarbone; he wants to taste the softness of his lips, and the calluses on his fingers, and the freckles on his shoulders. He wants Bucky to look at him the way… the way…

The recollection is there, suddenly, not so much a memory as an image: A smaller, softer body pressed up against him, another person with dark hair and laughing brown eyes, eyes that had gone soft and fond when they looked at him.

He had been loved, once.

The realization hits him with the force of a hammer blow, sending him reeling. _Someone loved me, once._ And on the heels of that: _I was capable of love._

He looks again at Bucky, the curve of his face and the way his eyelashes lie against his cheek. _I **am** capable of love._

He can’t remember her name. He barely even remembers her face—it’s blurred around the edges, like a photo taken with a restless subject and a long exposure. But he can remember the same sense of grateful wonder—the amazement that someone like _that_ could want _him._ He can remember the giddy exhilaration of loving someone, of being loved in return.

The excitement of this revelation disappears as quickly as it had come. What does it matter, if what he feels for Bucky is love, or want, or anything else? Bucky might consent to what they’re doing right now, because he’s an incredibly kind and forgiving person, but it would be foolish to the point of lunacy to expect or ask anything further from him. Bucky is a good man, a better man than Evgeni could ever hope to be. There is no way he could ever want someone as twisted and damaged as Evgeni.

He takes a deep breath, lets it out. Does it again. Tries to push away the hollow feeling in his chest.

 _It’s for the best_ , he tells himself. Whatever version of himself knew how to love someone properly, how to make someone happy, is long gone. The best he can hope for now is to avoid hurting Bucky any more than he already has.

The others return around five in the morning—he can hear Stark and Romanoff arguing about something as they open the door downstairs, and Wilson’s voice shushing them. Assured that all is well, he relaxes, and feels Bucky stir slightly.

“Evgeni?” he whispers. “Everything alright?”

“Yes. Go back to sleep.”

To his surprise, Bucky doesn’t argue or demand explanations. Instead, he turns toward him, draping one arm over Evgeni’s waist and resting his head on his chest. “Is this okay?” he murmurs.

Evgeni’s heart swells painfully. “Yes, of course.”

Bucky mumbles something that might have been “thanks”, and promptly drops off to sleep again.

After a little thought, Evgeni grabs Bucky’s unused pillow and maneuvers it behind his own head, propping himself up enough that he can watch Bucky comfortably. In this new position, he can wrap his arm around Bucky’s back, and feel Bucky’s cheek pressed up against his chest, with only his t-shirt to separate them.

Greatly daring, he runs his fingers through the silky strands of Bucky’s hair. Bucky grumbles a little and scooches further up his chest, hooking one leg over Evgeni’s thighs.

Evgeni freezes, then gently rests his hand on the small of Bucky’s back, not wanting to disturb him any further. Then he lets himself relax into watchful stillness. This may be the only time he gets a chance to have Bucky in his arms like this, sleepy and soft and trusting, and he’s going to savor every minute of it.


	6. Through the cold, I'll find my way back to you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end! I couldn't resist writing a little epilogue, so you'll notice that the chapter count has changed.  
> Thank you so much for all your lovely comments! It's been a pleasure to share this fic with you. <3
> 
> Content warnings: descriptions of past physical and psychological torture and forced drug use; negative reaction to PTSD trigger.

It’s a little after seven when the door quietly opens. Once again, Evgeni tenses, but this time, he doesn’t relax when he sees who it is.

Natasha Romanoff slips into the room, closing the door silently behind her. Her sharp eyes seem to take in everything: Bucky’s bare skin and the arm he has wrapped around Evgeni’s torso, the possessive way Evgeni holds him in return, the way the hills and valleys of the blankets reveal how tightly the two of them are tangled together.

Evgeni meets her gaze coolly. For once, he isn’t doing anything wrong; Bucky chose this. Bucky wants to be here. If there is to be a reckoning this morning, at least he will have known what it feels like to have Bucky sleeping in his arms.

After a moment of silence, she walks forward, picking up the abandoned desk chair and carrying it around to Evgeni’s side of the bed. Bucky doesn’t stir; he must be exhausted, to sleep so deeply.

“ _Good morning, Soldier,”_ she says in Russian, seating herself in the chair. Her voice is quiet, quiet enough that even Evgeni has to strain to hear her. It makes her no less intimidating.

He represses a shudder. “ _Please don’t. Don’t call me that.”_

 _“What should I call you, then? ‘Evgeni’?”_ Her tone is faintly mocking.

 _“It’s the only name I have_. _”_

“Hmm.” She eyes him for a moment, then switches topics abruptly. “ _Barnes seems to think you’ve defected HYDRA. I suppose this—”_ gesturing at the two of them— _“is the reason.”_

“ _No_ ,” Evgeni whispers. “ _No, I—_ ” He stops, confused. _“I do not want to work for HYDRA anymore,”_ he clarifies finally. _“But I—whatever you’re thinking—I didn’t take advantage of him, I swear.”_

Her mouth ticks upward at one corner, a hint of amusement that doesn’t reach her eyes. _“By which you mean, you didn’t rape him.”_

 _“I didn’t_ ,” he insists, struggling to keep his voice low.

She doesn’t look appeased, her eyes boring into him like they could drill a hole straight through his skull, as though she could extract all his secrets like a miner emptying a mountainside of coal. _“What is he to you?”_ she asks softly. _“I will know if you lie.”_

Evgeni swallows, glancing down at the man still sleeping on his chest. “ _He saved me,_ ” he says quietly, and hears the reverence in his voice as though it belongs to someone else.

 _“You’re in love with him?”_ She sounds surprised—stranger still, she sounds sympathetic.

Startled, he meets her eyes, and is taken aback by the compassion there. _“I know I shouldn’t_ ,” he whispers. _“I don’t want to hurt him.”_

“Hmm,” she says again, and then, breaking eye contact, “Good morning, Bucky.”

Bucky wakes warm and comfortable, with a firm chest beneath his head, and the sound of softly-spoken Russian in his ears. Instinctively, he retains his relaxed posture, keeping his eyes closed as he assesses the situation; by the time he realizes it’s just Evgeni and Natasha, he also realizes this is a conversation he really doesn’t want to interrupt.

_“I suppose **this** is the reason.”_

Bucky mentally curses, easily following Natasha’s train of thought. The blankets only come up to his shoulder, clearly showing his shirtless state—she’s probably assuming he’s completely naked under there, that he and Evgeni fucked. Maybe that he seduced Evgeni away from HYDRA, or that Evgeni… he can’t think of a scenario in which _Evgeni_ could be at fault in this situation, but clearly, Natasha can.

Evgeni is understandably panicked by her questioning, and Bucky is considering “waking up” when Natasha asks, _“What is he to you?”_ and all thought of interrupting vanishes.

It’s probably—no, _definitely_ —wrong to eavesdrop on this, but he can’t help listening for Evgeni’s answer with bated breath.

_“He saved me.”_

He sounds… _awed_ , like Bucky did something wonderful, like he didn’t just do what any decent person would have.

_“You’re in love with him?”_

What?

_“I know I shouldn’t. I don’t want to hurt him.”_

Bucky’s throat tightens. There’s so much longing in Evgeni’s voice, and all Bucky wants to do is hold him, reassure him that there’s more to him than the Soldier, that he deserves to have something good, that Bucky…

The thought stops him cold. Does he love Evgeni? Is that what this is?

He knows he _likes_ him, admires him, and, yes, he’s attracted to him, but… He doesn’t want to promise Evgeni anything he can’t give.

“Hmm,” says Natasha thoughtfully, and Bucky opens his eyes without meaning to, to see her looking straight at him. She smirks at him, and he wonders how long she’s known he was awake.

“Good morning, Bucky.”

Bucky blinks at her, then pulls the blanket up higher over his shoulders. “Hi, Natasha. Care to tell me why you broke into my bedroom?”

“The door wasn’t locked,” she says, like she wouldn’t have come in anyway.

“That’s ‘cause the lock was _broken_ ,” says Bucky irritably. “Does Sam need to give you the talk about respecting people’s privacy again?”

She ignores this. “Cap’s called a team meeting. We need to debrief.”

“And you couldn’t knock on my door like a normal person?”

“Evgeni and I were… getting to know each other,” she says, like she doesn’t know damn well that Bucky was awake for most of the conversation. He supposes this is for Evgeni’s benefit. “You two look pretty cozy.”

He tilts his head to look up at Evgeni, who gazes back at him with a worried line between his eyebrows. There are dark circles under his eyes; he looks exhausted and anxious.

Abruptly, he’s tired of this game. He sits all the way upright, letting the blankets pool around his waist, letting Natasha see his scars and his bruises and bare skin. She can think what she wants; he refuses to feel self-conscious about any of it.

“It’s none of your business, Natasha,” he says sternly. “I am your coworker, and what I do in my bedroom is none of your goddamned business. Now, please leave so I can get dressed.”

She stares at him for a long second, which is probably as close as she gets to betraying surprise, then rises gracefully. “Ten minutes, Barnes. I’ll see you downstairs.”

“Sure,” he says, just wanting her to leave.

The door closes behind her, and he breathes a sigh of relief before turning to Evgeni, who’s watching him with large, shadowed eyes.

“Are you okay?” he asks quietly.

Evgeni hesitates, eyes flitting to Bucky’s face and back down. “How much did you hear?” he asks at last.

“I think I heard most of it,” Bucky admits reluctantly. “I heard—when she asked you how you, um, how you feel about me.”

Evgeni draws back from him, as far as that’s possible in their current position, hunching his shoulders as though trying to make himself smaller. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to—it just happened.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” says Bucky gently. “I’m flattered, honestly.”

Evgeni is still refusing to look at him, backed up against the headboard like he’s trapped there.

Bucky takes his hand, then, on impulse, raises it to his mouth, pressing a gentle kiss to it. Evgeni looks at him with a startled, hopeful expression, and Bucky’s heartbeat quickens.

He swallows, lowering the hand but still keeping hold of it. “Evgeni. Buddy. I care about you a lot, okay? I like you, I trust you, and I—I am _definitely_ attracted to you. But I also… Look, you’ve just come out of a really bad situation, okay? And I’m literally the first person who was nice to you. I’m not even that nice. I just worry… I’m worried that what you’re feeling, right now, is… it’s not because it’s _me_ , it’s because… Well, like you said. I saved you.”

Evgeni shakes his head, then tugs a little, pulling Bucky back against his chest. Bucky goes easily, smiling when Evgeni rests his cheek against the top of Bucky’s head.

“It’s not… it’s not because of that,” he says quietly. “That’s part of it, but… Carter is nice to me, and so is Wilson, and Barton, and I don’t… I don’t feel like this about them.”

“Until yesterday, you thought I was your handler.”

“And I’ve never felt about a handler the way I feel about you,” says Evgeni firmly. “I _know_ that. And, besides, I…” He hesitates, then turns his head further, muffling his voice in Bucky’s hair. “I remembered something.”

“You did?”

He nods. “There was… there was a woman. A long time ago, I think. I… I loved her. I remember—I remember how it felt, and this… this feels the same.”

“Do you know who it was?” Bucky asks in a hushed voice. “Or what happened to her?”

He shakes his head. “No, I… I think…” A deep breath. “I think she’s gone.”

“I’m sorry.”

Evgeni doesn’t answer for a minute, then pulls away, hand trailing over Bucky’s bare skin. Bucky shivers with the contact.

“I know I’m not good enough for you,” says Evgeni quietly. “I can’t think of any reason that you would want to be with me like that. So I won’t—I won’t ask. I just—will you give me a chance to prove that—that I _can_ be good? That I can be worthy of your friendship.”

The quiet resignation in his voice makes Bucky’s chest ache in sympathy, but he tries to think clearly. The last thing he wants to do is respond out of pity, or guilt. He tries to imagine just being friends with Evgeni—even the kind of tactile friendship he has with Sharon. He imagines Evgeni going out with someone else, tries to imagine himself with someone who’s not Evgeni.

He can’t do it. He doesn’t _want_ to.

He wants this. He wants it to work.

“I’m afraid of hurting you,” he admits. “You trust my opinions so much, and I’m afraid that I’ll end up—that I’ll end up controlling you by accident, just because you want to please me. If we’re going to be in a relationship, I want it to be equal, and I… I don’t know if that’s possible right now.”

Evgeni hangs his head.

“I’m not rejecting you,” Bucky adds gently. “I would actually love to have a relationship with you. But I think—I think it’s too soon, right now. You’ve only just gotten free of HYDRA.”

“I disagree,” says Evgeni. For a moment, he looks almost comically surprised at his own daring; then his chin comes up, and a stubborn glint enters his eyes. “We’re already—close. Are you going to leave me alone when this is over, so you don’t influence me?”

“No, of course not,” says Bucky, taken aback.

“Then how is this any different? If you want it, and I want it, and you don’t mind that I’m… that I’m…”

“I don’t care about your past,” Bucky says quickly. “I like who you are _now._ ”

“Then why can’t we? I’ll feel the same, and you’ll feel the same, and the only difference is that we won’t be—hiding it. Ignoring it.”

Bucky gives him a long look. “Okay,” he says at last. “Okay, but we are going to find a relationship counselor, or something. And we’re going to take this _slow_. _Glacially_ slow. And both of us are allowed to reevaluate this at any point, okay? I don’t want to fuck this up.”

Evgeni smiles, wide and bright and joyful, and Bucky stares at him, captivated. He’s never seen that expression on his face before, and it’s like looking into the fucking sun.

The moment they go downstairs, Natasha corners him. “Give us a minute,” she tells Evgeni, and drags Bucky into the basement, closing the door firmly behind her.

Bucky lets her; he knows from experience that putting her off will only make things worse.

When they get down the stairs, she lets go of him, backing up a couple of steps to lean against the wall and stare at him. It’s an interrogation technique; stare at your mark long enough, and they’ll start babbling just to break the silence.

Bucky isn’t in the mood for it.

“Look, whatever you want, you’d better spit it out,” he says. “We’ve probably got like five minutes before he comes down here after me.”

“Did you fuck him?” she demands.

He sits down on the step and rubs his forehead, wishing vainly for coffee. “Fucking hell, Natasha. No, I didn’t.”

“Did you let him fuck you?”

“No. And before you ask, we didn’t do anything else of a—a sexual nature, either,” he says, irritated. “Believe it or not, I do have more sense than to initiate something like that with a traumatized abuse victim who’s only just learned the concept of personal autonomy.”

To his surprise, she looks a bit apologetic. “I had to check.”

“Is that why you broke into my bedroom?”

She shakes her head. “No. That was—we were worried, after that text, whether you’d been—coerced, or tricked, or… Anyway, we agreed that I would check. Make sure he hadn’t taken you hostage, or something. I wasn’t planning to interrogate him, but…” She shrugs. “The opportunity was too good to pass up.”

 _Spies_ , he thinks, but he knows better than to waste his breath arguing with her. It would just be an exercise in frustration for both of them.

“Okay,” he says instead. “Was that it?”

“No.” She hesitates, not meeting his eyes, then says, “Look, I’ve been where he is. The… the first part, the independence, I had to learn on my own, but… When Clint first brought me in, I knew I owed him, and I only knew two ways to repay him. He didn’t want me to murder anyone for him, so…” She pauses again, gaze fixed on the wall beside his head. “Luckily, Clint’s a decent guy, and he didn’t take me up on the offer.”

Bucky closes his eyes, pained. He hates the idea of her being so young and scared and vulnerable… and desperate. He hates the thought of Evgeni feeling the same way.

“I’m telling you this because he’s going to think he owes you,” she says. “And he’s going to make a lot of mistakes. A lot of assumptions. He’ll put you up on a pedestal, and when you fall off it, it’s not going to be pretty. It’s going to be hard work, for both of you, and it _will_ get ugly more often than not. So, if you’re not 100% sure about this? Do both of yourselves a favor, and quit now.”

He nods, trying to let her words settle. It hurts a little, to have it all laid out like that, but he knows it’s supposed to. This will only work if he’s committed to it, landmines and all.

 _Well, at least I’ve got experience getting blown up_ , he thinks wryly.

“I appreciate the warning,” he says aloud. “And I’ll… I’ll keep it in mind. But I am committed to this. To him. Whatever happens, we’ll get through it.”

She nods, like she didn’t expect any other answer. “Then take another piece of advice. Don’t try to do this alone.”

He stands up, meeting her eyes. “Is this you offering, Romanoff?”

“Could be,” she says, half-smiling. Then, more seriously, “We’re your team, Bucky. We’ve got your back.”

“Thank you,” he says softly, and dares to take her hand, giving it a brief squeeze.

She allows it, then brushes past him to go back upstairs, where, as predicted, Evgeni is anxiously waiting for them.

“What was she doing with you?” he hisses, pulling Bucky close as though retroactively protecting him.

“She just wanted to talk,” says Bucky, patting him on the arm. “Making sure I didn’t hurt you.”

Evgeni squints at him suspiciously. “Why would she care about that?”

“Because she knows what it’s like,” Bucky replies. “She’s a former Red Room operative. She’s been through something similar to you.”

At the term “Red Room”, he freezes up, staring over Bucky’s shoulder at Natasha.

 _“Red Room?”_ he repeats quietly, in Russian.

 _“Yes,”_ says Natasha.

Evgeni’s breathing quickens, his fingers tightening on Bucky’s arms. “I think… I was there,” he says, haltingly. “I remember…”

There’s a long pause. Bucky cranes his neck to see Natasha standing statue-still a few feet away; she looks like she’s seen a ghost.

“Children,” he says at last. “There were children. Red hair. Blonde. Yelena. Natalia.” He pauses, staring hard at Natasha. “ _Natashenka._ ”

She covers her mouth with her hand, eyes huge. “That… that was _you_? I thought…” She trails off, her face completely open with shock.

Slowly, Evgeni moves toward her, while Bucky backs out of the way.

He raises his hands to her cheeks, cupping her face; she clutches at his wrists, not pulling away, but holding on. “ _Your eyes,”_ he murmurs. _“I remember your eyes. Natashenka. Little spider.”_

 _“I didn’t remember,”_ she answers breathlessly. _“I thought I imagined it, or they planted it. I had no one to care for me, so I invented someone.”_

“ ** _I_** _cared_ ,” he says. _“That’s why—I kept thinking—you reminded me of a child. I’m so sorry. I never wanted to leave you. To forget you.”_

 _“I forgot you, too,”_ she says, and pushes forward into his arms. She hugs him, not as an adult woman embraces a man, but as a child hugs a parent: arms around his waist, face pressed into his chest. His arms come up around her, one hand on her back, one on her hair, comforting.

 _“I remember,”_ says Evgeni softly. _“The others were scared of me, but the two of you… you were so fearless. Climbing all over me like spider monkeys.”_

 _“Your hair was long,”_ she says, her voice muffled in his shirt. _“And you had a beard. You were so shaggy, like a bear.”_ She huffs a breath of laughter, then switches to English _._ “I thought… I didn’t start to remember, until after Iran. And then I thought—my subconscious had scrambled everything together. I told myself it wasn’t real.”

“Iran?” he asks, frowning.

She pulls back, giving him a rueful smile. “I was on a mission, and you stabbed me. But you didn’t kill me. I always wondered why.”

“I don’t remember it,” he says, shaking his head. “But I… I must have recognized you.”

“You trained me. I thought—at the time, I thought you seemed familiar. Maybe you felt the same way.”

He nods, hugging her tight again. “I’m sorry, _Little Spider._ I wish I remembered more.”

“I wish I did, too,” she says. Her eyes are wet. Bucky has seen her manufacture tears for a mission or interrogation before, but he’s never seen her cry for real. He’s _never_ seen her this vulnerable; he feels like he’s intruding, but he’s helpless to look away. It feels like he’s in the presence of a miracle.

“What are the odds,” says Natasha, echoing Bucky’s thoughts. She laughs, wiping her eyes. “And here I almost shot you, when I saw you at the motel.”

“ _Does that make us even?”_ he asks, grinning, and she laughs again.

_“Normally, no, but since you’re… **you** , I’ll make an exception.” _

_“Thanks.”_

“ _Don’t get cocky. You can’t expect this kind of special treatment **every** time you stab me.”_

 _“Of course not,”_ he says, grave, then suddenly laughs and hugs her a third time. He has a beautiful laugh—rich and deep and helpless. Bucky wants to hear it again. _“Little Spider, I’m glad I found you again.”_

 _“So am I.”_ She stands on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek, then backs away, out of his embrace. “Now, come on, Sam made pancakes.”

“I’m beginning to think you woke me up just for the drama of it,” Bucky grumbles, unable to hide his own wide smile. “The meeting clearly wasn’t _that_ urgent—is Clint even up yet?”

Natasha just laughs again, and leads them into the kitchen.

As they amble after her, Bucky bumps Evgeni with his shoulder. “So. Natashenka, huh?”

Evgeni beams. “She was so tiny, and fierce. I taught her how to kill a man with a spoon.”

Bucky considers this for a long moment, then decides not to ask for details. “Well, I’m glad you found each other again. I’m really happy for you, buddy.”

He gives Bucky a startled look, as though he hadn’t expected him to enter into Evgeni’s happiness, then smiles again and squeezes his hand. “Thank you, Bucky,” he says softly.

“Hey,” says Tony, from the table. “Quit mooning and come eat, the pancakes are getting cold and Itsy Bitsy here won’t let me steal yours.”

“I will stab you with a fork,” Bucky threatens, but tugs Evgeni over to the table anyway.

After breakfast (to which Clint arrives halfway through), they reconvene in the living room, where Tony’s set up his laptop and a holographic projector.

The others look askance when Evgeni settles next to Bucky.

“Dude,” Tony says. “I know you said he’s on our side now, but…”

“I trust him,” says Bucky firmly. “HYDRA lied to him. He needs to know the truth. And he deserves the chance to help us, if he wants to.”

There’s a pause, while Bucky waits. This isn’t just a question of how they feel about Evgeni; when it comes down to it, it’s about whether they trust his judgement, trust him to have the team’s best interests at heart.

“Okay,” Sam says, and Bucky’s shoulders lose some of their tension. “If you say we can trust him… you know him best.”

There’s a short pause, then, “Seconded,” says Clint, and Sharon nods.

Tony sighs gustily. “Oh, alright. Fine. Sure.”

To Bucky’s surprise, Evgeni turns to Natasha. “Natalia?”

“ _If you betray us, I **will** shoot you,” _she warns, though she sounds playful rather than threatening.

He smiles. _“I know.”_

“Yeah,” she says in English. “Go on, let’s get on with it.”

“Okay,” says Sam. “So, I’ll start with what we found out, and then we can move on to strategy…”

As it turns out, the meat of HYDRA’s plan is what Tony had revealed yesterday: when Insight launches, the helicarriers will take out all of HYDRA’s enemies—and potential enemies—in one deadly blow. Alexander Pierce, the Secretary of State, is the head of HYDRA’s American branch, but there are plenty of other members spread throughout SHIELD and the country in general, and embedded in pretty much every government in the world.

After teleconferencing with Nick and Maria, they come up with a strategy: Tony will use the codes he got from the _Lemurian Star_ to hack into HYDRA’s servers at the Triskelion and disable the launch sequence for the helicarriers. Meanwhile, as a failsafe, Sharon and Clint will infiltrate the helicarriers themselves and disable a few key components to keep them grounded, while Fury will let Sam and Natasha into the Triskelion to lay an ambush for Alexander Pierce. Bucky will coordinate the whole thing from a bunker a few miles outside D.C., with Evgeni to keep watch. 

Once they’ve disabled the helicarriers, Fury will inform the World Security Council of the HYDRA issue, and the Avengers will arrest Pierce. Then they and a group of loyal SHIELD agents will quietly round up all the other HYDRA members in the building. At the same time, Bucky will leak a selection of HYDRA files to various officials around the world, giving them a week to mobilize their forces and make the necessary arrests before the files are released to the Internet. Once that information becomes public, HYDRA will no longer be able to hide in plain sight—and neither will those who abetted them, knowingly or not. 

It’s less risky than other plans they’ve carried out, and Bucky is feeling cautiously hopeful when Tony says, “Okay, now that’s all settled… there _is_ one more thing.”

His tone is deadly serious, and Sam and the others suddenly look somber, as well. Bucky tenses, and feels Evgeni do the same beside him.

“You’re up, Wilson,” says Clint, and Sam clears his throat and skootches his chair a little closer to Bucky and Evgeni.

“Evgeni, this concerns you, but it’s nothing bad,” he says, adopting the calm, reassuring tone Bucky has heard him use at VA meetings. “In fact, it—I think it’s a good thing. We’ve, uh, we’ve found out some things about who you were, before HYDRA. Including your name.”

Evgeni’s breath quickens. At some point, he must have grabbed hold of Bucky’s hand; his grip tightens painfully. 

“Would you like us to tell you?” asks Sam.

Evgeni jerks his head in the semblance of a nod. Bucky switches hands so he can wrap his arm around Evgeni’s shoulders.

“Your name is Steven Grant Rogers,” says Sam gently. “Otherwise known as Steve. You were born in 1918, and you fought for the Allies in World War II. In 1945, you crashed a HYDRA plane into the Arctic, saving the entire Eastern Seaboard, and were presumed dead.” He takes a breath. “You were the first Captain America.”

Evgeni is no longer breathing at all. He is staring at Sam with wide, white-rimmed eyes, his face completely bloodless.

“Evgeni?” Bucky asks. “Are you okay?”

“No,” whispers Evgeni—Steven? Steve. “No, please, no, I’m not him, I’m not him—”

“Yes, you are,” says Tony. “We found pictures, look, I _knew_ you looked familiar—”

He pulls up a picture on the projection screen, just as Sam says, “No, Tony, wait—”

Evgeni takes one look at the picture—a black and white photo of a man in the Captain America uniform, younger and happier-looking than Evgeni, but still unmistakably _him—_ and lets out a cry of pain, curling in on himself as though receiving a blow.

“No,” he gasps, “No, please, I’m not him, I’m not him anymore, I promised, I’m _not—_ ”

“Hey,” says Bucky, “Hey, buddy, _sweetheart_ , it’s okay.”

“ _They can’t hurt you_ ,” says Natasha, crouching in front of Evgeni, her hands on his knees. “ _You’re here, you’re safe, they can’t punish you here. You’re allowed to remember.”_

 _“I don’t want to,”_ he chokes. _“I don’t want to be him.”_

_“Why not?”_

_“Hurts,”_ he whispers, curling up smaller, cowering against Bucky’s side. _“It hurts.”_

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Bucky says, rubbing his back. “We won’t hurt you. We won’t let them hurt you.”

“No,” whimpers Evgeni. “It _hurts_!” He’s clawing at Bucky’s arms and legs, mindlessly, looking for something to catch hold of; his voice is laden with terror and pain.

“Make it STOP!” he cries. Bucky looks around helplessly, but no one else seems to know what to do, either; Clint and Sharon are frozen in their chairs, eyes wide, while Tony, never good at dealing with other people’s emotions, mumbles an excuse and flees the room.

In the end, there’s nothing he can do to make it better; all he can do is hold Evgeni close and rub his back while he pleads and screams, fighting something none of them can see; at some point, Natasha goes and fetches a trash can, sliding it beneath Evgeni’s face right before he vomits.

They put a cool cloth on his neck, and murmur reassurances, exchanging worried glances over his head.

“I went through something similar, when I was deprogramming,” Natasha says quietly. “But that was mostly the drugs, I don’t… there must have been some kind of pain response triggered by his name….”

“That’s sick,” says Clint, his voice tight with fury, and Bucky nods, not trusting himself to speak.

“ _It’s going to be okay,”_ Natasha murmurs to Evgeni. “ _It’s okay, it’s okay to remember. You’re okay.”_

It seems to last for hours, though by the clock it’s only twenty minutes; finally, Evgeni gives a last, shuddering gasp and lies still, his head resting in Bucky’s lap.

Bucky waits a minute before saying, “Are you okay?”

Evgeni makes a flopping motion with his hand. “Functional,” he rasps. “Thirsty.”

Sharon silently gets him a cup of water, then disappears back into the kitchen. Bucky can hear the clank of her putting the kettle on the stove.

 _Tea_ , he thinks. _Good plan._

“I’m so sorry,” says Sam, as Evgeni raises the glass to his lips with a shaking hand. “I had no idea that would happen.”

Evgeni drains the glass, then rests his head on Bucky’s shoulder, his whole body limp with the aftermath of pain. “It hurt,” he says at last, voice hoarse. “They… made it hurt. To remember. That name…” He shudders. “They used it with every punishment, until I was afraid of it, until I hated it. And then they made me forget.”

There’s a silence. The kettle begins to whistle, and a minute later, Tony and Sharon return with the tea. It’s not until everyone has a cup in their hands that Tony says, “But you remember now.”

“I remember… some things. Not all. Not even a lot.” Holding the cup close to his face, he breathes in the steam for a few moments before finally taking a sip. “I remember being—that.” He gestures toward the air above the projector, where the photograph had been.

“So you really were Captain America,” says Clint in a hushed voice.

Evgeni shudders, huddling closer to Bucky. “Please don’t call me that,” he begs. “I—I can’t. Please.”

“We won’t,” says Bucky comfortingly, glaring daggers at Clint. “We won’t call you anything you don’t want us to call you. We can still call you Evgeni, if you like.”

“N-no,” he whispers. “No, I want—please, I want—”

“What do you want, sweetheart?”

“My name. My own name.”

“Steve?”

He nods, the fingers of his free hand tightening in Bucky’s shirt. “Just that. Not the rest. Please.”

“We can do that,” Bucky promises. He hesitates, then runs his hand up and down Steve’s back again. “Do you want to come upstairs with me? Just… take a nap, rest a little? This has been… a lot.”

“You’ll stay with me?” asks Steve plaintively.

Bucky’s heart swells and breaks at the same time. “Yeah, Steve. Of course I will.”

They go upstairs, carrying their teacups with them, and climb into bed. This time, it’s Bucky who wraps around Steve, holding him close, protecting him.

He presses a soft kiss to the fuzz on Steve’s head, then the nape of his neck, and entwines his fingers with Steve’s when Steve reaches for his hand.

“Go to sleep,” he murmurs. “It’s okay. I got you.”

“I know,” Steve replies, snuggling deeper into his embrace. “I know.”

The sudden onslaught of memories and pain must have exhausted him, because he falls asleep almost immediately.

It takes Bucky longer to relax. It’s only just hitting him now who Evgeni is— _Steve Rogers, **Captain America**_ , the fallen WWII hero everyone read about during the American history unit in high school. There have been documentaries about him and Peggy Carter and the Howling Commandos, and several highly inaccurate and melodramatic movies.

But Bucky doesn’t actually know that much about him, other than the barest outline of his story—he had enlisted in the army, gone through some kind of secret process to turn him into a supersoldier, and gone to Europe to fight in the war. When Peggy Carter and the 107th got captured in Italy, Steve had gone AWOL to rescue them, and had ended up leading a team with her and some of the men he’d rescued to take out HYDRA. And then he had crashed a plane, saving the entire East Coast.

And then he had died.

Only he hadn’t; HYDRA must have found him, found the plane. Bucky can’t even imagine what they must have done to him, to convert him to their cause. He doesn’t _want_ to imagine it. Just the bits he’s been able to guess are horrific enough.

And yet… here he is, asleep, one hand tucked under his cheek in a strangely childlike gesture, the other gripping Bucky’s arm. There’s a little wrinkle between his brows, as if even his dreams are worrying. Bucky wants to smooth it out; he wants to make everything better for him, so he’ll never have to suffer again.

He’s filled with a sudden, overwhelming love for this man, who’s been through so much and yet still managed to retain something of his soul—his intelligence and kindness, and yes, his stubbornness, the argumentative side he couldn’t quite curb even as the Soldier. Bucky can’t wait to find out the rest of who he is outside of HYDRA.

It’s with that thought that Bucky finally drifts off.

When Bucky wakes, it’s still light out, but there’s an orange cast to the sunlight that indicates the sun will be setting soon.

Steve is lying flat on his back, arms at his sides, staring blankly at the ceiling. That… doesn’t bode well.

“Steve?” asks Bucky cautiously. “You okay, buddy?”

“I deserved it,” Steve whispers. “Everything they did to me, I deserved it, I—I don’t deserve _this._ ”

Bucky sits up, trying to get a better look at his face. “Deserve what—being treated like a person?”

He nods, shudders. “I—I’m a bad person, I’m rotten inside, I—if you knew, if you knew what I’ve done, you’d lock me in a dark hole and throw away the key. You—you’d hate me.”

“What is it that you’ve done?” asks Bucky gently. He expects him to say something about the people he’s killed, or the chaos his actions have caused; he’s not expecting Steve to squeeze his eyes shut in an agonized grimace, and rasp,

“I left them.”

“Who did you leave?”

“My—my team. My _friends_ ,” he spits, venom all directed inwards. “They needed me, and I—I left them, I left them to suffer. I let them die.”

Bucky blinks. Try as he might, he can’t think of any aspect of Steve’s known history that fits this story. Keeping his voice calm as he can, he says, “Can you tell me more?”

“I,” says Steve, and swallows, curling in on himself. “I remember—they’d had me for—for a long time, I don’t know how long—it felt like _years_ , but—I don’t know. And they—they captured them. My team.”

“And by team,” says Bucky cautiously, “You mean the—” _Howling Commandos_ , he remembers, was a moniker bestowed after the war; Steve probably won’t recognize it. “You mean Peggy Carter, and um, Tim Dugan?” He does a quick search on his phone. “Jim Morita, Gabriel Jones, James Montgomery Falsworth…”

“Yes,” says Steve, nearly panting in his distress. “Yes, they—they were in the cell next to me—I could hear them—calling to me, begging me to save them—” He takes a deep, ragged breath. “I tried, at first—I broke the bars of my cell, I tried to get to them, but I—I couldn’t get through the door, and even when I took out some of the guards, I couldn’t find a key—and there were too many of them, and they stopped me, and p-punished, me, and…

“It _hurt_ ,” he whispers, in what’s got to be the understatement of the century. “And I kept—I kept trying, but I couldn’t get them out, and finally I, I…” He swallows hard. Bucky can see the pulse fluttering in his throat, rapid, out of control.

“Breathe, Steve,” he says quietly. “It’s okay. Just take a breath for me, okay? Now let it out.”

Steve obeys, fists clenching and unclenching as he does. He won’t look at Bucky, just stares at the ceiling, and when he speaks again, his voice is flat and blank, devoid of emotion. “I left them,” he says quietly. “The next time I got out, I didn’t try to rescue them; I just left. I left them there to die.”

“You escaped?” Bucky asks, confused. None of this matches up.

Steve gives a mirthless laugh. “No,” he says. “I barely made it outside before I collapsed. They caught me easily. And then—” He shudders. “They hurt them, terribly; I could hear the screams. And then—the shots.” His eyes close once more. “They carried the bodies past me. Said it was my fault, for trying to escape. For leaving them.” His voice breaks. “I was wrong about the Chair. It wasn’t a punishment, it was—it was a _kindness_ , to let me forget. To wipe away what I really am.”

Bucky is silent for a moment, trying to figure out how to address this. At last he says, “Steve, I’m sorry you went through that. That sounds… awful doesn’t do it justice. But, sweetheart, I don’t think—I don’t think that happened the way you think it happened.”

For the first time, Steve turns to look at him, confusion written across his face.

“The thing is,” says Bucky, “your team—Peggy Carter, Dugan, and the rest—they were never captured by HYDRA. Or, well, the only time they _were_ was when they were with the 107th, when you rescued them. But none of them disappeared, and none of them died like that—look.” He holds out his phone, open to the “Howling Commandos” _Wikipedia_ page. “Peggy Carter founded SHIELD, and only retired about fifteen years ago. Tim Dugan was Deputy Director of SHIELD for years and years. Jim Morita was a senator for California. Gabe Jones—he was a Harvard professor. All of them—all of them lived long, happy lives. They died of old age. None of them were captured, or killed, the way you said.”

Steve frowns at him in bewilderment, hope and disbelief warring on his face. “But—but I _remember_ , I…”

“Steve,” says Bucky, as gently as possible. “I’m gonna take a wild guess here, but is it possible HYDRA drugged you?”

He frowns even deeper, but nods.

“And I’m guessing some of those drugs were to make you more suggestible.”

“I don’t know.”

“Look,” says Bucky, “What I’m saying is, HYDRA needed to break your spirit. They needed to convince you to—to give up _yourself_ , to give up your personhood, in order to use you. And I think anyone who knows your history would know that your willingness to sacrifice yourself for others is a big part of who you are. So here’s what I think happened: I think they found some people who looked and sounded enough like your teammates that, with the drugs clouding your perception, you’d believe them when they told you that’s who they were. And they set you up to fail. It’s not a coincidence that you could break out of _your_ cell, but couldn’t break into theirs. They convinced you it was hopeless to try to rescue them, and made you believe you could make it out on your own. And then they took you back.”

“It—it wasn’t real? Those people—”

“I’m willing to bet anything they were HYDRA agents, and that the whole thing was faked,” Bucky responds. “I know for a _fact_ that they weren’t your teammates.”

“But,” Steve starts, then stops, looking lost. “But even if it wasn’t real—I still made that choice. I still chose to abandon them.”

Bucky sighs. “You didn’t abandon them. You tried to rescue them—repeatedly, at great cost to yourself—and when that didn’t work, you did the next best thing—tried to escape, yourself. Look, if you’d managed to get away after all, what would you have done next?”

“I—I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.”

Steve looks down at the coverlet. “I’d go for help,” he says slowly.

“ _Exactly_. You did the smart thing, Steve. When you realized you couldn’t get them out yourself, you escaped—and if you hadn’t been caught, you would have found reinforcements, and come back for them. What good would it have done, if you’d just stayed in your cell in solidarity? Then you’d all have died, and _no one_ would be saved.” He takes Steve’s hands in his, and this time, Steve doesn’t flinch. “I _know_ you, Steve. I’ve read your history, and I’ve seen who you are now. You would _never_ just leave them to die. You’re a good person. HYDRA lied.”

Steve nods, looking dazed.

“Say it with me. HYDRA lied.”

“HYDRA lied.”

“You’re a good person.”

“I—I’m a good person.”

“You didn’t deserve what they did to you.”

“I… didn’t…” He pauses, taking a deep breath. “I didn’t deserve what they did to me.”

“You didn’t abandon your friends.”

“I didn’t abandon my friends.”

For a long moment, they just stare at each other, both breathing a little too fast; then Steve throws himself into Bucky’s arms, burying his face in his shoulder. His whole body is shaking, and though he makes little sound, Bucky can feel his tears soaking his shirt. It’s the first time Bucky has seen him actually cry.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, stroking up and down Steve’s back with one hand, smoothing over his short hair with the other. “I’ve got you. Let it all out, now. Let it out. I got you.”

It’s a long time before Steve finally calms, pulling away to wipe his eyes with his palms. His skin is red and blotchy, his nose seems somehow bigger, and his face is crusted with tears and snot. He looks like some kind of over-sized goblin, and Bucky finds it unfairly adorable.

“Here,” he says, handing him a tissue. “Feel better?”

Steve attempts to nod and blow his nose at the same time, and pokes himself in the eye. The sound he makes is not unlike a cat getting its tail stepped on, and Bucky has to bite back a smile.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry, honey.”

Steve sighs, settling back against the pillows next to him. “Bucky…” he says slowly.

“Yeah?”

“Are you… I mean.” He pauses, biting his lip. “Look, I don’t want this if you’re doing it just because you feel sorry for me.”

Bucky blinks. “When did I give you the impression I was doing this out of pity?”

“I just…” He looks down, fiddling with the hem of his t-shirt. “It seemed likely,” he mutters.

“I’m not doing this because I feel obligated,” says Bucky. “I’m doing it because I _like_ you. You—shit, Steve, do you even realize how amazing you are? To have gone through what you did, and you’re still—you’re still kind, you still want to do what’s right. It’s incredible. _You’re_ incredible. I’ve never met anyone like you.”

“I should think not,” Steve quips, but he looks lighter, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You really mean that?”

“’Course I do,” says Bucky. “Look, I don’t know how this is going to turn out, okay? It’s not gonna be easy. I’ve got baggage, too—I mean, obviously not as bad as yours, but enough that I—I’m not always going to handle things perfectly. And if it turns out we’re better off as friends, then we can do that. But I want to make this work. I want this, with you.”

Steve lets out a long exhale, and slumps gently sideways to lay his head on Bucky’s shoulder. “Okay. I do, too.”

Bucky wraps his arm around him, and kisses the top of his head. “Good.”

Steve tilts his head back to look at him. “I feel like this warrants more than a head kiss.”

“You’re right,” says Bucky, and kisses his cheek.

“Bucky!”

He pecks Steve’s eyelids, then the tip of his nose. “This better?”

Steve huffs in irritation and sits upright, throwing one leg over Bucky’s thighs. “Bucky,” he growls, his voice dipping into the menacing tones of the Winter Soldier.

A delicious shiver runs up Bucky’s spine. He places his hands on Steve’s hips, leaning back with what he hopes is a flirtatious grin. “Yes, Steve?”

“Don’t _tease_.”

“Nothin’ stopping you, is there?” Bucky says.

Steve’s eyes widen, like he’s only just realized he doesn’t have to wait for Bucky to initiate. Then, very carefully, he cups Bucky’s face in both hands, thumbs gently stroking over his cheekbones. He’s close enough that his soft breathing flutters Bucky’s hair; from this distance, Bucky can see how fine his eyelashes are, and that his blue eyes are flecked with green. Steve looks at him like he’s the Grand Canyon and the Sistine Chapel rolled into one, like he’s something precious and beautiful and wondrous.

It’s almost frightening to be looked at this way, as though by seeing some part of Steve’s feelings he has also bared his own soul. Maybe he has. Maybe Steve can see as much in Bucky’s eyes as Bucky can see in his.

Bucky swallows, his heart beating faster. “Well?” he whispers.

The smile returns to Steve’s lips, and finally, he leans the last couple of inches to press his mouth to Bucky’s. It’s soft, achingly gentle, and over all too soon; when Steve draws back, Bucky has to force himself not to chase after him.

“Okay?” Steve murmurs.

“More than okay,” says Bucky breathlessly. “Feel free to do it again.”

Steve outright grins at that, the little worry line disappearing from between his eyebrows. “Maybe I will,” he says.

And he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "It Will Come Back"-- Hozier  
>  _You know better babe, you know better babe  
>  Than to look at it, look at it like that  
> You know better babe, you know better babe  
> Than to talk to it, talk to it like that  
> Don't give it a hand, offer it a soul  
> Honey, make this easy  
> Leave it to the land, this is what it knows  
> Honey, that's how it sleeps  
> Don't let it in with with no intention to keep it  
> Jesus Christ, don't be kind to it  
> Honey don't feed it, it will come back  
> You know better babe, you know better babe  
> Than to smile at me, smile at me like that  
> You know better babe, you know better babe  
> Than to hold me just, hold me just like that  
> I know who I am when I'm alone  
> Something else when I see you  
> You don't understand, you should never know  
> How easy you are to need  
> Don't let me in with with no intention to keep me  
> Jesus Christ, don't be kind to me  
> Honey don't feed me I will come back  
> Can't be unlearned  
> I've known the warmth of your doorways  
> Through the cold, I'll find my way back to you  
> Oh please, give me mercy no more  
> That's a kindness you can't afford!  
> I want you baby tonight, as sure as you're born  
> You'll hear me howling outside your door  
> Don't you hear me howling babe?  
> Don't you hear me howling babe?  
> Don't you hear me howling babe?  
> Don't you hear me howling  
> Don't you hear me howling  
> Don't you hear me howling babe? ___


	7. Epilogue: One Month Later

“Hey Bucky,” says Steve. He’s lying on Sam’s couch, reading his tablet with his head in Bucky’s lap.

“Yeah?

“Did you know there’s a man who went up fifteen thousand feet in a lawn chair with helium balloons?”

It seems like an innocent question, but in the past month, Bucky has gotten to know all too well how Steve Rogers’s mind works. “Please tell me you’re not planning to try that.”

There’s a slight pause before Steve says, unconvincingly, “No, of course not.”

Bucky sighs. “I thought you didn’t even like flying?”

“I don’t like _planes_ ,” he corrects. “ _Floating_ would be fine.”

“You know, there are people who fly hot air balloons,” says Bucky. “If you want, I bet we could find someone who would give us a ride in one.”

Steve perks up. “You think so?”

“Yeah, why not? I bet Tony could get us in touch with someone.”

“And that’s something you’d like, too?”

And Bucky, who can’t remember ever caring one way or another about hot air balloons, says with perfect truth, “Honey, I would _love_ that.”

Steve grins at him, satisfied as a cat full of cream, and tilts his chin in the particular way he does when he wants to be kissed. Bucky is only too happy to oblige.

“I should start dinner,” says Steve, when they break apart. “Wanna help?”

“Sure,” Bucky says, a little surprised. Sam is a major food snob, and usually doesn’t let anyone else even help with the cooking, let alone cook in his kitchen unsupervised. “Sam must really like you, if he’s letting you cook here.”

“He taught me some stuff,” says Steve, leading the way to the kitchen. “And I’m good at following recipes.”

Bucky leans against the counter, watching Steve pull down pots and pans and a cutting board. “What can I help with?”

“You can make the salad. Vegetables are in the drawers in the bottom of the icebox.” Steve sets the cutting board and knife in front of Bucky, and fetches another for himself.

“So this is still working out, then?” asks Bucky, rummaging in the fridge. “You and Sam are getting along?”

They had decided early on that if Bucky and Steve were going to try a relationship, they probably shouldn’t also be roommates, at least, not at first. Sam had offered his guest room to Steve, and Bucky has subsequently found himself hanging out at Sam’s house more in the last month than he has in the past two years combined.

“Yeah, it’s still good!” Steve pours oil into a cast-iron pan. “Sam’s really nice. But we had to have a talk about drinking orange juice out of the bottle.”

“Who was doing that?”

“Sam. I know,” he adds, catching sight of Bucky’s expression. “I couldn’t believe it, either.”

“Well, he’s clearly been living alone too long. It’s probably good for him, having you here.”

Steve smiles, pleased, and starts chopping onions.

They work in silence for a while, each concentrating on their separate tasks. Bucky’s mind wanders over the events of the past month, and the paths that had led to them being here now, safe and comfortable in Sam’s kitchen.

It’s said that no plan survives contact with the enemy, and their strategy to take down HYDRA hadn’t been the exception. Their ambush of Alexander Pierce had gone awry when the STRIKE team tried to ambush Fury at the same time. In the kerfuffle, Fury had gotten shot (luckily non-fatally), Natasha had killed Pierce, and Sam had managed to take out half the STRIKE team by himself. Clint had broken his ankle jumping off of the third helicarrier, and Tony had nearly abandoned the mission when another HYDRA team attempted to infiltrate Stark Tower to get at Pepper. Luckily, Bruce Banner was also staying at the Tower; the HYDRA invaders hadn’t lasted long against the Hulk.

Still, they’d managed in the end, and while the world is still reeling from the revelation of HYDRA’s influence, Bucky thinks people are starting to adjust.

“I don’t know if Sam told you,” says Bucky, “but Nick Fury’s stepping down as director of SHIELD.”

Steve dumps a pile of chopped onions into the pan. “Why?”

“He said that if you can’t tell the difference between SHIELD’s methods and HYDRA, then clearly something was wrong. I guess he figured he was part of the problem.”

“You know, I still find it weird to hear SHIELD referred to as a separate thing from HYDRA,” says Steve.

“Guess that proves his point.”

“Guess so. Who’s replacing him?”

“Maria Hill. She’ll be good at it, I think. She’s very competent, anyway. Whether she’ll have better ethics than Fury… I don’t know. I guess we’ll see.”

“So what’s Nick going to do?”

Bucky ducks his head to hide his amusement at the nickname. He knows for a fact Fury hasn’t given Steve permission to use it, but he’s finding out that, without HYDRA’s influence, Steve doesn’t have a lot of respect for authority figures (although he still gets nervous about disobeying direct orders). “The CIA and MI6 are collaborating with SHIELD to form a taskforce to take down HYDRA. Fury’s going to be head of it.”

“Are the Avengers going to be involved?” asks Steve, crushing a clove of garlic with the side of his blade.

“Probably,” Bucky says. “They’re still working on the details.” He hesitates. “If we do go after HYDRA… do you want to be involved?”

Steve is quiet for a moment, cutting up the garlic with more attention than is strictly necessary. “Yes,” he says eventually. “I want to finish what I started. I want to see them destroyed, once and for all.”

“Natasha wants to investigate the connection between HYDRA and the Red Room,” says Bucky. “She thinks… she might be able to find information on some of the people she knew, now that we have access to HYDRA’s files.”

“Yelena,” says Steve immediately. He turns to meet Bucky’s eyes, intense focus written in every line of his face. “She’s going to look for Yelena.”

“If she’s still alive—”

“She will be,” he says confidently. “She and Natasha were the best of the Red Room. If anyone could survive, it would be her.”

“She might not want to come in. She might… not remember you.”

Steve smiles, like this amuses him. When he speaks, his accent carries a hint of Russia. “You are probably right. But… this is family. You know how it is. If she does not remember us, we will convince her. And she is no match for the two of us.”

“I’ll go with you,” Bucky offers quietly. “If you want.”

Steve crosses the kitchen to plant a kiss on Bucky’s forehead. “Thank you.” He sounds pleased, but, Bucky is happy to note, not surprised. “I would like for you to come.”

“Then… whenever it happens, I will.”

Steve gives him another kiss, this time on the lips, and heads back to the stove, where the contents of the pan are hissing alarmingly.

“Speaking of family,” says Bucky hesitantly, “My, uh, my parents would really like to meet you. When you’re ready, that is. There’s no rush.”

“They want to meet… _me_?” Steve asks disbelievingly. He gives the pan another stir before facing Bucky again. “Do they know what—who I am?”

“I haven’t told them much,” says Bucky. “I didn’t know what you’d be comfortable with them knowing. But they know I’ve met someone special, who makes me very happy, so… Yeah. They’d like to meet you at some point.”

Steve blushes, and turns hastily to his cooking again. “I don’t know if I’m the kind of person people introduce to their parents, Bucky.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not people, and they’re my parents, and you’re important to me.” Bucky walks over to him, then leans up against him, wrapping his arm around Steve’s waist. “I love you, you idiot.”

Steve turns bright red, and nudges Bucky very gently with his elbow. “You’re gonna make me burn this,” he says. “And Sam won’t let me use his pans ever again.”

“Sorry,” says Bucky, knowing he doesn’t sound sorry at all. “I’ll go back to my salad, then.”

Before he can move, Steve reels him in with his free hand, kissing him firmly. “Yes,” he says softly, when he’s pulled away. “Not just yet, but… yes. If you want me to meet your family…”

“I do,” says Bucky.

“Then I want that, too.” His eyes are soft and warm. “I want everything with you.”


End file.
